No One But Her
by OperaLover
Summary: This is a continuation of the story told in the 2004 film, beginning four years after the fire. This is a romance and eventually will have a happy ending between Erik and Christine.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **To my great dismay, I do not own any of the characters from The Phantom of the Opera. The characters in my work are based on the portrayals in the 2004 film.

**A/N: **This is a continuation of the story told in the film, four years after the disastrous fire. I don't wish to offend anyone, but if you don't care for romance or a happy ending, then read no further. Those of you who do continue, I would appreciate knowing what you think, for better or worse. I apologize if the first few chapters are a little short—I have no way to judge how long they should be in this type of forum.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter One—An End, and A Beginning**

Paris, France—April, 1875

Marie Giry let herself into the modest brick house that set well back off the main road to Paris. Surrounded by towering evergreen trees, nothing about the house attracted any undo attention, which is exactly what the owner wanted.

After carefully locking the door behind her, she walked down the hall to the kitchen where she set her market basket on the small table, which was cluttered as usual with half-filled sheets of musical staff paper. The double doors that led from the kitchen to the small terrace stood open, letting in the bright sunlight and soft breezes of a beautiful spring day. Marie stopped on the threshold, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at the man who sat at the shaded end of the terrace, his elbows propped on a small table, his head in his hands.

A newspaper folded in half lay under one elbow, the faint breeze catching a corner occasionally. Marie dashed the tears from her eyes and stepped out onto the terrace. The faint sound of her shoe striking the stone made the man's head jerk in her direction. For an instant she felt her heart stutter at the glare in his icy blue eyes, but she squared her shoulders and continued until she reached his side.

The right side of his face had been scarred, by God only knew what, when he was a baby, and his dark hair was thinner on that side of his head. But still, all in all, she thought, he is not an ugly man. The width of his shoulders and the lean whipcord strength of him would be enough to draw the attention of most women. If I were a few years younger, perhaps . . .  Then she shook her head ruefully. No. There had only ever been one woman for him.

After the disaster four years ago at the Opéra Populaire, Erik Montenegro, at one time the infamous Phantom of the Opera, had bought this house, giving the money for it to Marie Giry, so all the paperwork would be in her name. She and her daughter Meg were the only ones who knew what had become of him, and they ran errands for him.

Over his shoulder Marie could see the partial headline—"killed in accident." Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, had been killed the day before in an accident involving runaway horses, a freight wagon, and a child who had wandered into their path. "So," she said softly, "you have heard the terrible news, eh?"

"Yes," he replied just as softly. "Is there—is there news—of Christine?"

"She has taken to her bed, understandably, of course, with her baby due in a matter of days." She paused then put one hand over the fist that lay clenched on the tabletop. "Would you like for me to visit her?"

Erik nodded briefly, then rose abruptly and strode to the low stone wall that surrounded the terrace. The scarred side of his face was turned toward her, and Marie noticed with satisfaction that the herbal remedy she'd insisted that he try was having a positive effect. The scarring was much less noticeable than it had been six months ago.

The sight of him standing there, the slight breeze molding the rough blue chambray shirt against his chest and his long legs encased in his customary black trousers, it was not hard to imagine him as a common laborer, a stable hand, perhaps. But in truth his genius had helped him amass a comfortable nest egg by making several shrewd business investments over the past four years.

Slowly Marie walked toward him, drawing Erik's attention back to her. "I will check on Christine as soon as I can." He nodded once but made no other reply.

The sounds of a horse and buggy moving down the drive toward the road reached him a few minutes later. His broad shoulders suddenly slumping, he resumed his seat at the table and unfolded the paper to read the story again. "Oh, Christine," he whispered brokenly, "I would not have had this happen to you for the world!"

Suddenly a large, long-haired gray and white cat leaped nimbly onto the table, the plume of her tail just barely missing his nose. With a laugh that ended on a sob, he scooped the cat into his arms and buried his face in her fur. "Oh, Madeline," he whispered, "she didn't choose me before—why should I dream that she would now?"

de Chagny Estate, five days later

"No, no, Louise, it's all right! Please let Madame Giry come in!" Propped up in the large oak bed, dressed in a white lawn nightgown and an emerald green satin robe that barely covered her huge belly, Christine shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. She feared the gradually building pain in her lower back meant that she was in labor, but since her water hadn't broken, she was doing her best to ignore it.

"Oh, Marie! How good it is to see you! How is Meg?" And how is Erik? she asked silently. One visit not long after she and Raoul had married, Marie had told her that Erik was living on the outskirts of the city, still shunning the outside world as he had done for so many years.

On subsequent visits, when Raoul was not within earshot, the older woman would talk of Erik from time to time. When Christine's and Raoul's son was born, Marie brought a gift from Erik for the child, a beautifully carved wooden horse. Idly she mentioned that Erik had carved it himself, bringing tears to Christine's eyes, and carefully she wrapped the toy in its covering and put it away until her son was older.

Perhaps they were not meant to be together, thought Marie as she settled herself in a chair next to the bed. And then again . . .  "How are you, chère?" she asked, noticing that Christine could not seem to lie still.

"Quite uncomfortable, if you must know the truth." Her chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears that immediately spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, Marie! What will I do without Raoul?"

"It is not much comfort to you, I know, but you must simply take each day as it comes. Do not look farther than the end of today." The older woman reached out and took Christine's hand in both of hers. "You will always miss him, child, and the pain will never go completely away, but it will ease in time. And this I know well—your children will be a great comfort to you, because they are part of him, no?" Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped Christine's face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Try to sleep a little now, ma petite. You will need all your strength very soon, unless I am mistaken."

Sighing, Christine turned over on her side as far as she could. "Please, come again soon, and bring Meg? Stephen would love to see her, as would I."

Murmuring her assent, Marie waited until Christine had dozed off. "God forgive me for meddling, but I must do this," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters from The Phantom of the Opera. My characterizations of Erik, Christine and Madame Giry are based on the 2004 film.

**A/N:** Since this is fiction, and my fiction, I have taken a few liberties with Erik's physical appearance, and have not followed exactly the "conditions" in the film, i. e., the wig. My Erik's hair is all his own, and since the fire, he no longer wears his mask.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Two—A Tiny Scrap of Hope**

"Christine? Christine, wake up! It's only a bad dream!"

The voice, so tantalizingly familiar and at the same time unfamiliar, murmured soothingly in her ear. She tried to wrench away, but her hands were held tight against a hard chest, and the arm around her back was like iron. For an instant she melted against him, whispering brokenly, "Oh, Raoul, it was horrible! The chandelier at the opera house was falling toward me and I couldn't move!"

Then the truth struck her like a great blow. "Oh, God, no! Raoul's dead!" Realizing suddenly she didn't know who held her so close, she drew a deep breath to scream, only to have a warm, calloused palm cover her mouth.

The man holding her eased a few inches away, until she could see his face in the dim light. Her eyes widened above his hand as she recognized Erik.

"Please, Christine, please don't scream! I mean you no harm, I swear!" Slowly he lowered his hand, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that had trickled down her cheeks.

"Erik!" she whispered. "How did you get in here? No," she continued quickly, "I don't want to know." She swallowed hard. "You heard—about—about Raoul?"

"Yes. I wanted to—to tell you in person—how very sorry I am, Christine. He was—a good man." He inhaled sharply, then went on, "I—wanted you to know that—I bore him no ill will."

With a soft cry she dissolved into tears, and without thinking Erik pulled her into his arms and rocked her, gently rubbing up and down her back until her grief was spent for the moment. The scent of wildflowers in her hair had filled his memories for so long, and the feel of her in his arms after four long years was almost more than he could stand. Stop it!, he told himself harshly. That way of thinking will do you no good. Gently he ran his hand over her luxurious dark curls. Oh, Christine! How much I wish things could have been different!

With a tremulous sigh she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands until he produced a handkerchief and gave it to her. Gratefully she dabbed at the remaining tears, noticing against her will the smell of him that clung to the square of linen—a hint of bay rum, and a scent that was his alone, something that she recognized even after four years of living with Raoul.

"I'm all right now," she told him, handing the handkerchief back to him. Gently she cupped the scarred side of his face, and he had to forcibly stop himself from turning his head and kissing her palm. He stiffened at the touch of her fingertips tracing lightly over his cheek, fighting the feelings that flooded over him.

"Your face!" she said excitedly. "The scars are smaller, aren't they?"

Before he could reply, there were voices in the corridor, just outside her door. Swiftly he laid her back against her pillows, pressing a kiss to her fingertips before tucking her hand under the coverlet. "Take care of yourself, mon ange," he whispered and was gone before she could blink.

Later that night, as she was twisting and turning, seeking a more comfortable position, she gave up trying to fight the memories of a few hours ago. He called me his angel, she mused, an endearment only he had ever used, and absently rubbed the mound of her child. A sharp kick made her wince, and she smiled wistfully. All right, little one, no more thinking about Erik.

There was never any doubt that he loved you, a voice in her head argued.

"No, but the lengths he went to for that love were more than frightening," she murmured. Is he still the same obsessed man I knew, or has he changed? Marie would have me believe that he is a different man. Oh, what am I doing even thinking about him, when Raoul is barely cold in his grave? The tears that were never far from her these days spilled down her cheeks, and she turned her face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

Standing unnoticed in the shadows, the sound of her sobbing tore through Erik like sharp knives and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth against the cry that rose from the depths of his very soul. He inhaled slowly and deeply, and concentrated on listening for sounds that Christine had fallen asleep. Only when her breathing was deep and even did he venture from his hiding place and approach the bed.

He went down on one knee and reached out to smooth a curl off her forehead. She shifted at his touch and he froze, until he was certain she hadn't awakened. Slowly he let out a breath, and leaning down so that his mouth was near her ear, he began to sing softly. He stopped suddenly when he realized what he had been singing—The Music of the Night. Giving himself a mental kick, he touched his forehead to hers for a brief moment then said softly, "Christine, I love you." With a butterfly kiss to her cheek, he left the room as quietly as he had come, making his way silently out of the house and down the road to where he had tied his horse.

Quickly he mounted and rode away, ignoring the tears that ran down his face. He reached home without meeting anyone on the road and unsaddled his bay mare without bothering to light a lantern in the stable. As he stood brushing her glossy coat, suddenly he leaned against her neck and said brokenly, "Anywhere you go, let me go, too."

Christine woke drenched in sweat, crippling pain working its way from her back around to center in her belly. "Oh, God!" she gasped and began to pant, remembering that the midwife had told her to breathe in such a way when she was in labor with her son. Soon the pain subsided and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at the wet clamminess of her gown and the sheets.

Slowly she eased down from the bed and made her way across the room to the bell pull. Within minutes her maid Louise appeared, with Madame Giry on her heels. Caught up in another contraction Christine cried out and the maid began to sob.

Marie gave the girl a hard shake. "Go and send one of the footmen for Madame Piccout, the midwife. I will take care of your mistress." Her eyes huge with fear, the girl scurried away to do as she'd been told.

That was one of the longest days Christine had ever endured. The midwife insisted that she walk around the bedroom between contractions and Christine was positive that by the time it came to push, she'd walked miles. The child came just before dawn the next day, a tiny girl with Christine's dark curls and Raoul's blue eyes, squalling indignantly until the midwife placed her in her mother's arms.

Blinking away tears, Christine touched her daughter's tiny cheeks with a fingertip. "Hello, Annaliese," she whispered. Looking up at the two women who stood beaming at her, she said, "Raoul and I had decided to use my mother's name for a girl." She looked back down at the baby, now sleeping peacefully, and added, "But Raoul left the decision of her middle name up to me." Bravely she looked at Madame Giry and said, "Her middle name is Erika."

A/N: Thanks for the reviews-- I think I can respond to all in one. Yes, Christine and Raoul have a 3 year-old son, Stephen. Sorry for any confusion! Underlining "thoughts" is force-of-habit with me-- for years that was the "proper" way to format a manuscript for publishing. Anything that was not to be printed in normal typeface had to be underlined. Hope you enjoy Ch. 2!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from The Phantom of the Opera, much to my regret. All new characters and the plot are my creations, however.

**A/N:** There is a small bit of nudity in this chapter (when Christine nurses the baby.) I hope I have written this tastefully. Please read and review, and many thanks to those who do.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Three—You Have Come Here**

She woke with a start, her heart pounding, her mouth like dust. Pressing a hand to her chest, she inhaled and exhaled slowly and felt her heart slow its frenzied beating. At that moment five-week old Annaliese gurgled happily and Christine smiled. In the next instant her heart stopped then resumed its frantic pounding when she heard a man chuckle softly. In the faint early morning light she saw a man in a black cape leaning over the baby's crib.

"I suppose, little one," he spoke softly to the baby, his voice amused, "that no one has told you how beautiful you are." Suddenly the baby's forehead puckered and she grew still. "What, ma belle? Oh, do you see this?"

Christine must have moved or made some sound because abruptly the man's gaze whipped to her. She sagged in relief. It was Erik. Reaching for her robe, she made her way to the crib, now able to see that the baby was staring intently at something hanging from a chain around his neck.

When he straightened she saw the object swing back and rest on his chest. It was a ring. Her ring, she realized with a start. The engagement ring Raoul had given her four years ago, which she in turn had given to Erik just moments before she and Raoul had fled the burning Opera House. Annaliese made a soft grunting noise and Christine picked her up, turning her to check her diaper.

"Why, Christine? Why would you do such a thing—give Raoul's daughter my name?" With her standing so close to him, he could smell the wildflower scent of her hair, and the waves of longing that crashed over him made his voice harsh and cold.

"I'm sorry if you're angry, but—"

"Angry?" He laughed shortly and turned away. "No, not angry. I am—honored, and—humbled." He faced her and she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. "That is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me."

"Oh, Erik, I—"

The baby began to fuss and Christine shifted her onto her shoulder, rubbing tiny circles on her small back. Taking that as his cue to leave, Erik raised his hands to pull the hood of his cloak over his head.

"Please don't go." Christine's voice was barely audible over the baby's increasingly angry cries.

"I must. Already there is enough light that someone might see me." When she didn't respond, he looked up and saw that she had retreated to the bed and was opening her gown to let the baby nurse.

Transfixed, he watched the tender scene for several long moments, the only sound in the room the baby's enthusiastic suckling. Then Christine glanced up and saw him still standing there. A rosy blush spread over her cheeks and neck as they stared at each other. Oh, God, if only the both of them were mine! he thought hopelessly.

Without realizing he had moved, Erik found himself at the side of the bed. As he had that night weeks ago, he went down on one knee and slowly reached out, this time gently caressing the top of the baby's head with his fingertips. Her hunger satisfied for now, she fell asleep in her mother's arms.

Her hand trembling, Christine touched his cheek, wiping away a tear that had traced its way down to his chin. When he raised his eyes to her, she gasped softly at the love she saw shining in their blue depths. In shocked silence she watched as he pressed a kiss to the baby's cheek, then rose gracefully to his feet. Before she could guess his intent, he leaned down and kissed her ever so gently on the lips.

Without another word he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

Tears rolled unheeded down Christine's face and she whispered, "Oh, God, help me!"

A few days later a package arrived by messenger. Inside it was a carved wooden baby rattle in the shape of a cat, and a tiny diamond ring—an exact duplicate of the one he wore on the chain around his neck. Christine clenched it in her fist and paced her room, muttering to herself. "Why, Erik? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Marie, you must help me. You must tell me where Erik lives. I cannot go on like this. I have to speak with him." Christine sat in a rocking chair in her bedroom a month later, nursing Annaliese.

The older woman sat nearby, idly turning the cat baby rattle over and over in her hands. "He has been gone to England, to see a surgeon," she told the younger woman quietly, "someone who has had success in removing scars."

At that Christine looked up sharply. "Has he returned? Did he tell you what the doctor said?" Annaliese stopped nursing and Christine moved her to her shoulder, patting her tiny back to make her burp.

"I know only that he has returned. I have not spoken with him." Marie smiled as the baby burped loudly, and she stood to take the child and lay her in her crib. She let the baby grasp her fingers and for a moment they played tug-of-war, until the baby's hold loosened and she fell asleep.

"His house is the last one on the road to Marseilles, a small brick house with large evergreen trees in front of it."

Her heart pounding, the next afternoon Christine pulled the buggy to a stop, grasping the seat of her three-year old son's breeches just as he tried to jump out. "Stephen, sit still and wait for Maman and your sister," she admonished him gently. Seeing his bottom lip poke out, she sighed inwardly. Her son had a fearsome temper at times; she prayed today would not see a demonstration of it.

As quickly as she could, she gathered the baby and took Stephen's hand in hers. "Let's see if the man who carved your horse for you is at home, all right?" They walked up the brick pathway to the front door and Christine knocked, but no one answered. Seeing that the path led around the side of the house, she and the children followed it.

Absently she noticed the flowers blooming in window boxes and tried to imagine Erik planting them. The bright mix of colors complemented the warm buff color of the brick and in the warm sunlight, they smelled wonderful. For an instant she closed her eyes and savored the blend of fragrances.

Happy barking made her eyes jerk open in time to see a large mixed breed black puppy come racing toward them. She grabbed Stephen and held him tight against her leg. From the back of the house she could hear Erik, angrily calling to the dog. Obediently it sat in front of her, tongue lolling from one side of its mouth, eyes bright and hopeful.

"Rascal!" Upon hearing his name, the puppy leaped up and ran back to Erik, happily jumping on him, pulling a reluctant laugh from him. "Down, Rascal. Down. Good boy! Sit—sit! Good boy!" He rumpled the dog's ears and thumped him on the side.

Frozen at the sound of his laugh, Christine was too late to stop Stephen from running over to join man and dog. She stared at Erik, amazed and a little irritated at her reaction to the sight of him in dark trousers and a blue chambray shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows to expose tanned, muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. He looks . . . wonderful. And . . . content.

At the sound of steps, he looked up, shocked at the sight of Christine and her children standing before him. Just as the boy reached them, he took a firm hold on the pup's collar, murmuring "Sit."

Suddenly shy, Stephen stopped several feet away. "Oggie!" he said, making Erik hide smile at the garbled pronunciation.

"Doggie," he said carefully, one hand still on the pup's collar. Slowly he crouched down beside the dog and reached out for the boy's hand, placing it on the top of Rascal's head between his ears. "Touch him gently. This is Rascal. Rascal, this is Stephen."

Rascal's tongue swooped out and nearly caught Stephen on the chin. After a moment, the child giggled delightedly and turned to his mother. "Oggie!"

Fighting tears, she nodded, and replied, "Yes, love. Doggie." She swallowed, then said, "Please don't be angry, Erik. I told Marie I had to speak to you and she told me where you live. I've told no one else."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **The characters of Erik, Christine, Madame Giry and Meg belong to Gaston Leroux and/or Andrew Lloyd Webber. The plot, however, belongs to me.

**A/N: **At the end of Chapter Three, Christine drove out to Erik's house with her children. This chapter is a little longer than the others—I couldn't seem to find a good stopping place. Thanks to all who take the time to comment.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Four—Hardly Knowing the Reason Why**

Slowly he got to his feet and gestured behind them. "There is a terrace in the back where we can sit and talk."

With a firm grip on her son's hand, she followed Erik around the path to the rear of the house. "It's beautiful, Erik. Peaceful and calm and . . ."

"Lonely? Marie tried to get me to live closer to the city, but I just couldn't. She's worried a little less about me lately, since Rascal followed me home one night. And she herself brought me a cat for the stables." He pulled out one of the chairs at the small table for her and she sat down with a tiny smile.

"Maman! Oggie! Play oggie!" Stephen pulled on her hand, trying to get free and go to Rascal, who sat patiently on the other side of the table, tail thumping against the stones.

"Just a minute, love." Looking up at Erik, who stood slightly behind her, she handed him the baby. "Would you hold her for a minute, please?" Without waiting for his consent she placed the child in his arms and turned to speak to her son.

After admonishing him to stay on the grass under the tree that shaded the terrace, Christine turned to take Annaliese from Erik. The look of wonder on his face made her eyes fill with tears. "Would you like to hold her for a little longer?"

Eagerly he nodded, his eyes never leaving the baby. He moved around the table to sit in the other chair. He started to unwrap her from her blanket then stopped and looked sheepishly at Christine. "May I?"

"Let me help you." Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same corner, and Erik grasped her hand for an instant. She felt a blush heat her cheeks as he squeezed her fingers.

Annaliese squirmed, as if sensing she was about to be released from her bindings, and Erik lifted her high above his head, letting her kick her legs and squeal. Man and child smiled at each other, and he said, "She's grown so much since I saw her last!" Carefully he settled her on his lap, her back against his stomach, his hand spread across her belly to hold her in place.

They sat in relative silence for a moment, listening to Stephen and Rascal romping in the grass a few feet away. Christine said quietly, "Thank you for the rattle and the ring." She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Marie told me you'd been to England, to see a surgeon."

"Yes. Unfortunately he can do nothing for me. He seemed to think the folk remedy Marie brought me is the best I can do." Unconsciously he rubbed the scars with his free hand.

"But they are disappearing! And I never thought they were that horrible in the first place." Oh, God where did that come from? "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bring all that up."

"Why did you come here, Christine?"

"Why have you reappeared in my life after four years?" she retorted. "Is it because Raoul is gone—your rival is out of the way now?"

"No!" Annaliese whimpered at his outburst and he scooped her up to rest on his chest, patting her back and murmuring softly. "No," he continued in a milder tone, "I thought—I needed to—and now I've waited until it was too late."

"Too late?"

"To beg your forgiveness—and Raoul's—for what I put you both through." He closed his eyes as if in pain, then opened them, his misery obvious for anyone to see. "I'm sorry, Christine. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me, for what I did, and what I intended to do?"

Standing, she moved the few feet to his side and went down on her knees. She laid a hand atop the one that held the baby to him, and smiled softly. "Oh, Erik! I forgave you for that long ago, when you let Raoul and me go free."

He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "Thank you. I don't deserve it, after what I did, but thank you." Blinking rapidly, he looked down at the baby, now sleeping contentedly against his chest. "I think she likes me," he whispered, sounding surprised.

Christine dashed away her own tears and smiled at him. "Children are rarely wrong about people, I've found. They have an instinct that shouldn't be ignored." At that moment Stephen and Rascal came running up to them. She swung her son up and around, making him giggle. "This is the man who carved your horse for you. What do you say?"

Shyly the boy tucked his head in the curve of her shoulder and very softly said, " 'Ank oo."

Moved more than he thought possible, Erik swallowed hard and replied, "You're welcome." To Christine he said, "He's a fine boy, the very image of Raoul. I'm sure he was very proud of him." Annaliese stirred and he shifted her from his chest to his shoulder. She fussed a little and he rubbed her back as he'd seen Christine do.

"You'll make a wonderful father." The quiet comment startled him and his heart gave a hard thump.

"There was never any chance of that," he said mockingly. "What woman would want someone like me, even if the scars didn't frighten her?" Refusing to look at her for a moment, he added, "I think he's asleep," nodding to the boy.

Before she could respond, he stood and extended a hand to her. When she took it he began to lead her toward the house. "There's a room just inside with a small bed, if you'd like to use it?"

"Yes, thank you." The room had not only a small bed but a table and chair sitting in front of a wide window. Carefully she laid her son on the bed and covered him with the quilt that was folded at the foot. She took the pillow and wedged it between him and the open side of the bed.

Annaliese began to fuss in earnest and Erik bounced her up and down to no avail. He pressed tiny kisses to her head and temples but her little face grew beet red and he turned to Christine in a panic. "What did I do?"

"Nothing. You just aren't equipped to meet her needs at the moment," she said, a slightly teasing note in her voice.

"Oh!" His own face showing a flush of embarrassment, he handed the now-squalling baby to her and she sat in the chair, unbuttoning the bodice of her dress and crooning to the baby. He cleared his throat and backed toward the door. "I'll, um go make some tea."

She chucked as his hasty retreat and let the baby nurse, humming softly as she did. Within minutes the baby fell asleep and as Christine laid her on the bed next to her brother, she heard it.

Leaving the door to the room open, she followed the music down the hall to the parlor, stopping in the doorway. Two large windows faced the terrace, letting in the sun and the breeze. The walls, as in the room she'd just left, were painted a warm creamy yellow. The only other furniture besides the piano was a small sofa upholstered in tan leather.

Erik sat at the piano, his eyes closed in intense concentration as his fingers flew over the keys. Suddenly he looked up and saw her, his fingers fumbling over several notes until he looked away and finished the divertimiento by Mozart.

She approached him, smiling as she said, "I couldn't help but notice the light-colored paint and the large windows."

"After so many years of darkness, when I bought this house and moved here, I seemed to crave the light." Rubbing his hands nervously on his trouser legs, he started to stand but she put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

"No—please play something else?" She made no attempt to remove her hand and he began to play a piece that she was certain she'd never heard before and was just as positive that he'd composed it. It was light and airy, seemingly a combination of Bach, Mozart and Chopin, reminding her of children laughing and playing.

"That was beautiful." Her eyes asked what she dared not say aloud and he rose from the piano bench and walked to the windows, still able to feel the burning sensation at the spot where her hand had rested.

Staring out at the terrace, he listened as she walked to the windows and stood next to him. Sighing he said, "Yes, I wrote it, years ago, after I had first seen you in the opera house—and had heard you sing."

"Do—do you still compose?"

"No. Not since. . ." He let the rest of the sentence trail away and shrugged. "I had nothing to inspire me." After a moment he added, "My gift was a short-lived one, it seems."

Stephen called out for his mother, and together they went to check on him. He was awake, but feeling grumpy as he usually did upon first waking. Christine plucked him from the bed and settled him on her hip. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and she turned to Erik with a sigh.

"It's late and we should be going." She started to hand the boy to him, but he refused to let go of her and she hitched him up to a more comfortable position. "Could you bring the baby, please?"

"Certainly." Carefully he lifted Annaliese from the bed and she went right on sleeping. He smoothed his hand over her head and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Sweet child," he whispered, and kissed her again.

Once they were all three settled in the buggy, Christine picked up the reins and looked over at Erik. "It's been a wonderful day," she told him.

"Please come again soon," he said, surprising them both. "I'll introduce Stephen to my horses—if that's all right with you. It doesn't matter to me—just please come."

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, she said, "I'll send word the day before we'd like to come, to be sure it's all right." With that she flicked the reins and the horse trotted briskly down the drive and soon the buggy was out of sight.

That night Erik's dreams left him fighting invisible enemies, and he woke gasping for air. In the back of his mind he heard a melody. Stunned, he sat up in bed and closed his eyes, listening intently. He threw back the sheet and went to his desk, scrambling for staff paper and a quill and ink. Quickly he scratched out the notes he was hearing, before they disappeared like a puff of smoke.

When he finished, he went to the piano and played the melody, gradually adding chords as he went. His heart pounding, he played the song over and over, making minor changes, until it was as perfect as could be.

As he rose from the piano bench, suddenly he realized what had just happened. His knees nearly gave way, and he sank to the floor with a cry. He had composed something worthwhile for the first time in over four years. "Oh, Christine, my love, thank you!" It seemed he had regained his muse.

**A/N: **I don't have children, so I apologize for any faux pas concerning Stephen and Annaliese. Readers who are parents, please let me know if I'm wrong about anything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** To my great regret, Erik, Christine, Madame and Meg Giry are the creations of Gaston Leroux and/or Andrew Lloyd Webber. The plot, such as it is, belongs to me.

**A/N:** Please read and let me know what you think.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Five—Touch Me, Trust Me?**

"Oooh! Those pig-headed, stubborn . . . men!" Christine entered her bedroom and flung her hat and gloves onto a nearby table. Propping her hands on her hips she surveyed her comfortable surroundings, searching for something she could hit without hurting her hand. She rounded on Meg, who entered from the small nursery that was adjacent to the bedroom with a frown on her face and a finger pressed to her lips. "Just because—"

"Quiet! I just now got Stephen to go to sleep! If he wakens, there'll be hell to pay and you know it!" Meg hissed. She took Christine by the arm and led her to one of the chairs that sat in front of the bay window, pushing her down on the seat. "Now, what is it that has you so irritated?"

"Raoul's business manager, that's what! Just because I'm a woman and a mother, I'm not supposed to have a brain and be able to think for myself. There are some details that need to be taken care of and I am incapable of doing it!"

"Did Raoul discuss these things with you?"

"Yes, and he told me specifically what he intended to do, which is almost the exact opposite of what is going to happen, unless I can find a way to prevent it." She jumped up and began to pace.

"Talk to Erik." Meg spoke quietly. "From what I've been able to figure out, that is how he's been making a living these last four years. I think he might have been comfortably well off before—I mean, getting 'rent' from the owners of the opera, and not spending all that much of it, except perhaps on clothes now and then. But Maman has told me that he has made some brilliant business investments since then, has even advised her on what to do."

"Will you stay and watch the children, Meg?" Without waiting for an answer, Christine went to the armoire and pulled out a simple day gown of light blue linen. "What time is it?" She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. Barely two in the afternoon. "Good; I should have plenty of time to get there and back before dinner." She dressed hurriedly, grabbing up her hat and gloves from where she'd thrown them, never hearing Meg's admonition to be careful.

Erik cradled his forearm against his stomach and carefully walked toward the house. The stallion, Thunder, had tried to take a chunk out of him while attempting to get to the mare, Brandy, who was in season. Erik sighed, knowing that he must keep the two separated, since he did not want Brandy to be having a foal for another year yet. The sound of someone coming up his drive at a fast pace made him glance up sharply.

Recognizing the buggy as the one Christine had driven the day she'd brought the children, he moved quickly toward her, reaching the side of the buggy almost before it stopped. "Christine, what's wrong? Are the children all right?"

Startled by the sight of him, for a moment she could do no more than stare. His exertions had left a sheen of perspiration on his chest, and his shirt was undone nearly to his waist, his dark hair mussed. The blue of his shirt darkened his eyes to turquoise, and her mouth went dry. Then she saw the bite mark on his left forearm and the blood dripping from it and forgot everything else.

"What happened?" She jumped from the buggy before he could assist her and grabbed his good arm. "Come into the kitchen and let me look at that."

"It's nothing, really. I've had much wor—" The look she gave him could have melted iron and wisely he choked off what he'd been about to say. I only hope I can endure your touch without doing something stupid, love.

In the kitchen she worked the handle on the pump at the sink and wet a cloth she grabbed up from the counter. She turned to him, and grabbing the sleeve of his shirt, ripped it all the way to the shoulder seam so she could see the wound more clearly. Taking his hand she pulled his arm over the edge of the sink and pumped out more water.

He hissed as the cold water hit the wound, and she pulled his arm free of the water to look more carefully at the puncture. "What happened?" she asked again, frowning at the jagged edges of the wound.

"Thunder—my stallion—tried to get to the mare by going through me," he told her through teeth clenched as much from her nearness at the pain. "Damnation, woman! That hurts like hell! What are you doing?"

Calmly she ignored his outburst and continued to put pressure on the wound. "If you keep pressure on some wounds, they stop bleeding sooner." Slowly she peeled away the cloth, and smiled when the bleeding did not continue. "You see? Now we need to wrap it carefully—oh, do you have any whiskey?" At his raised eyebrows she said, "The alcohol helps keep infection away."

He gestured behind them. "I think there's a bottle of cognac in one of the cupboards." She stood on tiptoe, but couldn't reach the top shelf. Before he could stop himself, he leaned past her, intentionally trapping her between his body and the cabinet. The softness of her pressed against him and the tantalizing scent of her nearly made him forget his promise. Quickly he pulled the bottle down and handed it to her. "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

The hard, warm length of him pushing against her and the smell of horses and sweat and him made Christine forget where she was for a moment. No! she cried silently. I cannot weaken; I cannot be unfaithful to Raoul. She tightened her fingers around the neck of the bottle and took a deep breath. When she turned to answer him, the look on his face nearly made her drop the cognac. "Please, Erik, don't!" she begged.

Backing away from her, he raised his uninjured hand in submission. "I'm sorry, Christine. I don't mean to frighten you. But when you are near me, I—"

At that moment she uncorked the cognac and poured some on his wound, making him howl in pain. Suddenly wary of just what he might do, she put the bottle down and moved quickly to the other side of the kitchen.

"You did that on purpose." His voice was even, but his eyes flashed a warning at her. Slowly he walked toward her, and skittishly she backed away, until she could go no further.

"Yes, I did it on purpose! Raoul has been gone only a few months and—"

"And you loved him. Oh, yes, I know very well exactly how much you loved him—so much so that you were willing to sacrifice yourself to me so he could be free." His face only inches from hers, he stared deeply into her eyes. "And how much I wanted love like that for myself," he whispered and turned away.

"I know you loved me—you said as much that night. And—you loved me enough to let us go, rather than force me to stay with you, as I'd said I would." Swallowing, she asked quietly, "Where does that leave us?"

"I don't know." Sounding defeated, he ripped what remained of his sleeve off and went to the counter. He picked up a square of cloth, clumsily trying to fashion a bandage for his wound with one hand.

Suddenly her hands took the cloth from him and gently she wrapped it around his wound, her light touch sending sparks shooting up his body and making him groan softly. Her eyes flew to his and he merely shook his head, unable to trust his voice. Finally she tied the ends together and told him not to get the bandage wet. Needing something else to occupy her hands, she gathered up the used cloths and took them to the sink.

"Why did you come here today, Christine? Not to doctor my wound, certainly."

"Meg suggested that I come and talk to you. Raoul's business manager is making an ass of himself, and I can't do anything about it. Because I'm a woman, I have no brain and can't make complicated business decisions." Disgusted, she told him what had been said and decided in the meeting that morning, adding, "Raoul distinctly told me he wanted to do the opposite, but my word isn't good enough for them."

"And he wrote down none of these instructions, just told you what he wanted done? That doesn't sound like him," mused Erik. At her surprised look, he said, "Unbeknownst to Raoul, we did some business together in the last few months, and I know he was an astute businessman. And you knew him better than I—he would have written down something about this? Where would it be?"

Frowning, Christine chewed her bottom lip, distracting him to no small degree. Her eyes lit up as she remembered, "There's a drawer in the bottom of his desk that he kept locked and I now have the only key. If there are instructions, they would be in that drawer." Delighted, she flew across the room and into his arms. "Oh, Erik, thank you!"

His arms folded around her and he held her close, savoring the scent of her and the softness of her body against his. "You're welcome, love," he whispered and gently set her away from him. At her confused look he explained, his voice ragged, "My control hangs by a very thin thread where you are concerned. I know you only wanted to thank me for making you remember the drawer, but . . . Christine, have you no idea what you do to me?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The characters from The Phantom of the Opera are the creations of Gaston Leroux and/or Andrew Lloyd Webber. My characters are based on the portrayals in the 2004 film.

**A/N:** At the end of Chapter Five, Erik tells Christine that his control where she is concerned isn't very strong. Please read and review.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Six—Hell's Avenging Angel**

Her eyes huge, she could only stare at him as he continued, "I know and understand that you must be faithful to Raoul. But . . . I want you just as much as I ever did, and . . . the possibility of my ever having you is still as far away as the moon." He stalked to the window and looked out, his hands gripping the windowsill until his knuckles were white. "When you touch me, I have to fight the urge to take you in my arms and kiss you and—and I know all too well that I have no right to." Will never have the right to!

He flinched as she touched his back. "Please, look at me." He shook his head, gritting his teeth, holding himself absolutely still.

"Please, Erik." He could hear the tears in her voice and made himself turn, looking beyond her at the room behind them. Her hands cupped his face and he inhaled sharply. "I have feelings for you, too," she whispered, "but I need time—time to mourn Raoul, and time to sort out these feelings." Gently she kissed his scarred cheek, then the other, and finally, his mouth.

His arms came around her and he pulled her against his chest, forcing himself to keep the kiss tender and not to plunder her mouth the way he would like. Almost immediately he let her go and she stepped back, not bothering to wipe the tears that ran down her face.

"God help us both," he whispered.

Unable to concentrate for more than a few seconds on any one thing after Christine had left, he put on a clean shirt and paced the length of the terrace several times before he flopped in one of the chairs. He couldn't say exactly what was making him so restless, other than what had caused an almost constant restlessness in him for more than four years. At least she finally admitted that she has feelings for me, he thought, a tiny smile sneaking onto his face.

But what kind of feelings are they? a voice in his head nagged him. She could simply want to be friends. That brought him back up out of the chair to resume his pacing.

He stopped suddenly, a tremendous sense of foreboding sweeping over him, leaving him shivering in the warm summer breeze. Christine's frightened face flashed before his eyes, and he knew she was in trouble. Racing to the stable he saddled the stallion and as an afterthought, grabbed up the sword he had not used in four years. Be brave, Angel—I'm coming! He swung up on the big horse and they took off at a run.

Christine had driven only a few miles from Erik's house when she realized someone was following her, and trying to keep from being noticed. With dismay she noticed the growing thunderclouds and tapped the horse on the rump with the buggy whip to increase its speed. Whoever was trailing her also speeded up, and she felt her heart climb into her throat.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me," she whispered over and over, letting the horse have its head. Raoul had bought her a revolver of her own and had made her practice with it, but she had left home without it, or any other type of weapon, save the buggy whip.

Her pursuer grew bolder with each passing minute and she fought a rising sense of panic. Oh, God! Oh, Raoul! Erik! Help me!

Suddenly above the sounds of the wind and the approaching storm, she heard the rapid pounding of hooves very nearby. A dark horse appeared on the left side of the buggy, and she screamed as its rider leaped from the horse's back onto the buggy seat. For an instant she tried to fight him for the reins, but he was too big and too strong.

She screamed again, only have a meaty fist connect with the side of her head. Falling to the floor, Christine saw stars and her ears rang for a minute. Her hand touched something on the floor—the buggy whip. Carefully she grasped it, and turned slowly to look at her abductor. He paid no attention to her and she swung the whip at his head as hard as she could. It caught him on the face near his eyes and he yelled in pain, jerking the reins.

Erik heard her screams and he kicked his horse into a fast gallop. Closing the distance between them, he saw the buggy swerve to one side. He rode up on the right side and saw Christine fighting the man driving. Spurring his horse, he rode in front of the buggy, making the horse rear. Before its hooves hit the ground, he was off his own horse and brandished his sword at the man driving.

"Get out!" His tone murderous, he stalked closer and in a series of moves too fast to follow, cut the man deeply twice on each arm and once across the belly and chest. "I said, get out! Unless you want me to carve you into tiny pieces where you sit!"

The man scrambled down from the buggy, his hands pressed to his chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. "Now—who sent you? Who paid you to kidnap this woman?" When the man didn't answer, Erik slashed down with his blade, opening a new wound on the man's leg.

"I swear, guvnuh, I don't know! I never saw his face—he just told me to wait here and what the woman looked like!"

For a long moment Erik stared at him then he waved the man away. "Get out of here," he snarled, "and if you so much as think about this lady again, I'll track you down and kill you." He watched as the man stumbled away then slid the sword back in its scabbard.

Once the would-be kidnapper was out of sight, Erik turned to Christine. She sat slumped on the buggy seat, her shoulders shaking with sobs. "It's all right, love; he's gone. Shhh—don't cry! You're safe now—I won't let anything happen to you." He climbed into the buggy and she came into his arms without hesitation.

"Oh, Erik! I was so frightened! All I could think of was that I was going to die and the children would be orphans." Shuddering, she held onto him tightly, burying her face in his chest, heard his heart pounding in time with hers. She felt him take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Carefully, gently, he rubbed his hand up and down her back, and the warmth of him, of safety, slowly began to replace the iciness of her fear. Pulling away a few inches, she looked up at him, tears filling her eyes anew. "Thank you," she whispered, and reached up to kiss his scarred cheek.

The brief touch of her lips sent warmth rushing throughout his body, and he steeled himself to show no reaction. Animal! he snarled at himself in disgust. She's just been frightened out of her mind—she damned well doesn't need anything more to deal with! Clearing his throat, he replied softly, "You're welcome, Angel."

He moved her away from him, and she made a small sound of protest. "I must tie my horse to the back of the buggy. I'm not sure he would follow us on his own. You'll be all right for a moment?" When she nodded he drew a line down her cheek with a fingertip, murmuring, "Brave little angel."

Within seconds he was back, getting in on the right side of the buggy. At her curious look he explained, "It will be easier to have my injured arm around you, rather than trying to drive with just that one arm." He tucked her against his left side and slapped the reins. The horse took off with a jolt, but soon settled into a smooth, easy pace.

Feeling her still trembling, he said, "Put your arms around me, Christine. At the very least you should be a little warmer that way. He held his breath until he felt first one, then the other arm creep around his waist. She turned so that her head rested against his chest and he felt her breathe out slowly.

Luckily the storm passed them by and they arrived at the estate in less than a half hour. Erik spoke to her softly. "Christine? We're ho— we're there." She didn't respond and he pulled the horse to a stop in front of the house. Carefully he moved her arms from his waist and leaned her against the left side of the buggy. He got down and quickly tied the horse then gently lifted her in his arms. Before he started up the stairs, he pressed a kiss to her lips. "Oh, Angel," he whispered brokenly, "I don't know what I'd have done if I'd lost you a second time."

He kicked open the door and brought a crown of servants running. Marie Giry led him upstairs to Christine's room and he shouldered his way inside, laying her carefully on th bed. "I think she's unconscious," he said worriedly, rubbing her hands between his to warm them. In short, terse sentences he told Marie what had happened, and her face grew pale.

"Thank le bon Dieu that you arrived in time," she said fervently, crossing herself. "Help me loosen her dress." When he didn't comply, she looked over at him. "Erik!" she said sharply.

He instead moved to the foot of the bed and unhooked Christine's boots, sliding them from her feet. By that time Marie had unbuttoned her dress and was pressing a cool cloth to the younger woman's forehead. Christine's eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes with difficulty.

"What happened?" she murmured groggily. Erik saw the fear in her eyes when she remembered exactly what had happened, and he moved quickly to her side.

"Shhh, angel, it's all right. You're home now, and safe with Marie and your family." He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed her hair back from her face.

"Keep telling me that and perhaps I'll believe it in a few days," she told him, her eyes filling with tears. "Thank you again, for saving me. When I think of what would have happened if you hadn't come when you did—"

"Put it out of your mind right now," he ordered, taking her in his arms and rocking her gently. "I did arrive in time and that's all that matters." He made an attempt to rise from the bed but Christine held onto his hand and he sat back down.

"The children!" Anxiously she looked at Marie, who assured her that Stephen and Annaliese were both sound asleep. "I have to see them," she said, and swung her legs over the side of the bed, only to sway and almost fall when she tried to stand.

Erik caught her immediately and she insisted, "I have to see my children." He carried her, following Marie as she went to the adjacent room. Tears clogged his throat as he set her on her feet between the small beds, watching as she lovingly touched their cheeks and kissed their foreheads. Seeing her sway again, he slid an arm around her and she leaned into him gratefully.

"Time for Maman to be in bed, too, I think," he murmured in her ear as he steered her back to her room.

Amazingly she woke only once during the night gasping in panic, and he was by her side in seconds to calm and comfort her. When Marie came in with chocolate and warm, crusty rolls in the morning, he had fallen asleep on the bed, on top of the covers, one arm protectively around Christine's waist. The older woman smiled at the picture they made, and thought, Perhaps soon everything will be as it should.

**A/N:** Dear Abbie, thanks for your nice review! After I'd read some of the other Phantom stories here, I was beginning to think that my Erik would seem pretty wimpy. The ruthlessness is still there, but he's had a lot of time to think in the last four years. Please keep reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The characters of The Phantom of the Opera belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any new characters are the product of my feeble imagination.

**A/N:** Many thanks to my friend LaDon for reading all of this that I have written, and for reminding me that it was the aristocratic families who seemd to have the most trouble dealing with less than physical or mental perfection. Also, there is a short passage with some sexual content.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Seven—Your Darkest Dreams**

"It's the truth, I tell you!" Christine's cook paused in her preparations for lunch and pointed her big chopping knife at the butler, who stood shaking his head in disbelief. "I was a scullery maid for his parents, the Count and Countess of Charlesbourg. Except for the scars, he is the very image of his father, with that black hair and those eyes that can stare a hole straight through you."

"If that's so," the butler countered, "then why is it that I have never heard of him or his parents?"

"Because the baby was scarred and they gave him away, and both parents died within a few years of it without other children." God forgive me, she thought, for not being brave enough to speak up for the poor babe.

"I think Raoul's business manager had something to do with that man who tried to kidnap me."

Her quiet statement made Erik's head snap up and he abruptly stopped playing the song he'd written a few weeks ago. "What? Why do you think so? Has he said something to you—tired something else?" He got up and went to her, sat next to her on the sofa and took her hands in his.

Since the attack two weeks ago, every time she had driven out to his house, he had accompanied her when she went home. She hadn't protested, although he'd been certain she would; he'd told her he would simply follow her anyway, whether or not she wanted him to.

"Why?" he asked again. "Why do you think he's involved?" Erik had done some investigating on his own and had discovered nothing.

"I—I was supposed to meet him in the library, to discuss some plans I found in Raoul's desk for an orphanage, and—and I was early, and—the door was open and I heard him speaking to someone in a very low voice. He said—he said—Oh, God! He said now that they'd gotten rid of Raoul, they would have to try again to get rid of 'her' so they could use the money set aside for the orphanage for their casino and brothel instead." For a moment she sat in stunned silence then she sprang up and paced to the windows. "That bastard!" she raged. "He—he murdered Raoul!"

"And we'll find the proof and send him to prison for murder," said Erik evenly, despite his own growing anger. "Let me help you, Christine. Don't try to do this by yourself." Then something she'd said struck him. "Orphanage? Raoul was going to build an orphanage?"

Still enraged by what she'd discovered about the business manager, she swung back to him. "Yes, so children won't have to be sold to the carnival."

"Don't pity me, Christine." His tone was icy, but she was too angry to pay much attention.

"I don't," she replied bluntly. "You've managed quite well for yourself, despite the horrible things that happened to you when you were a child. We simply hoped to be able to provide some form of stability and education, and yes, perhaps even love, for as many children as possible. And yes, I was the one who suggested it to him. Now, about that bastard of a business manager—I think we should lay a trap for him."

"What kind of trap?"

Chewing on her bottom lip, she paced for several minutes then she came back to the sofa and sat beside him. "We use me for bait, and then have the authorities waiting at a place and a time that we choose, and they arrest him for attempted kidnapping, and then we can explain—"

"You stubborn little fool!" Angrily he surged to his feet and stalked a few steps away. Turning back to her, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her roughly to her feet. "He's already tried to harm you, and now you want to the bait in a trap for him?" Pulling her up on her toes, his face mere inches from hers, he gave her a hard shake. "No! I won't permit it!"

Her dark eyes flared with anger, her chest heaving as she tried to control her temper and wrench out of his grasp. "You 'won't permit it'? You are not my master, Erik. You have no say about what I will or will not do." She tried again to break free, only to be hauled against his chest.

He stared deeply into her eyes, and she felt his gaze move slowly over her face. So softly that she almost didn't hear him, he whispered, "I can't bear to lose you again, Christine." She struggled, but that only served to tighten his arms around her.

Stunned, she watched as the heat of anger in his eyes changed to desire. Her breath caught in her throat. You know you've always wondered what it would be like to kiss him again, and to have him kiss you back, a sly voice in her head taunted her, making her almost giddy at the thought.

Slowly, giving her time to turn away, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was gentle, as the only other kiss they'd shared had been, but this one had an edge of hunger, of desperation that was different. Heat exploded in her veins, making her cling to him tightly, and she tangled her fingers in the dark hair that curled slightly at his nape.

All too soon he broke the kiss and released her, holding her by the shoulders until she was steady. "I'm sorry. I had no right to—"

She grabbed the open ruffled collar of his shirt and pulled him to her. Staring up into blue eyes darkened to turquoise by passion, she kissed him deeply. Oh, Erik, please kiss me!

His surprise lasted only a few seconds then he crushed her to him, matching her kiss for kiss, hot and hard, deep and demanding. His hands roamed over her feverishly, down her back, cupping her bottom and lifting her until her legs went around his waist and she cradled the hard length of him against her. He moaned softly at the contact and tightened his hold.

Trailing kisses down the side of her neck, he followed the lace edge of her bodice to the tops of her breasts. When he had kissed his way to the fragrant spot between them, he stopped and raised his head. "Christine?" There was a lifetime of hope and longing in that one word.

"Yes, please! Oh, God, Erik, don't stop!" Reluctantly, he let her slide down to her feet. She reached between them and pulled his shirt free of his trousers, jerked it open and ran her hands over the hard, sculpted muscles of his chest, delighting in the triangle of dark hair that covered his breastbone. Reveling in the feel of his heart pounding as hers was, she leaned into him, and pressed tiny kisses to as much of him as she could reach.

Knowing he must stop her before this went too far, he caught her chin and tipped it up with one finger, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Angel, why? You know that I love you, have loved you for years, but . . . Why are you doing this? Is it the heat of the moment, or . . . something else?"

She averted her gaze, a flush of embarrassed color riding her cheeks. "I—I don't know!" One hand pressed to her mouth, she whirled around and tried to run from him.

He caught her before she'd taken three steps, pulling her gently back against him, spoon-fashion. His arms folded across her, pinning her to him.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "I've never been so ashamed!"

"Shhh, Angel, it's all right. Actually," he said, a teasing note in his voice, "I'm flattered that I could make you forget him, even for just a moment." Carefully he let her go and turned her around. "But, can you forget all of it, Christine? Can you put what happened between us completely in the past?" Will you ever be able to look at me, let alone make love to me and not remember those things? Will you ever be able to love me for who I am?

Receiving no answer, he caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, wiping away her tears. "It's all right, love," he told her softly. "I still hope that that day will come. When it does, believe me, it will truly be a dream come true." Shrugging, he added, "I can wait a little longer."

"Madame Germont, may I have a word with you, please?" Marie Giry spoke quietly to the cook, who nodded and wiped her hands on her apron. After giving the two young kitchen girls instructions to turn and baste the chickens in ten minutes, she led the way outside to the breezeway between the kitchen and the main house.

"In what way may I help you, Madame Giry?"

Marie chose her words with care, knowing she was treading on shaky ground. "I understand that you think you recognized the young man who rescued the Vicomtesse a few weeks ago?" Her calm expression belied the excitement she felt; deep down, she had always known that Erik was an aristocrat. And whether or not he would be pleased to know it, she was determined to find out.

"I don't think it—I know it, madame. As I told M. Rivière, the butler, I was working as a scullery maid for the Count and Countess of Charlesbourg, some thirty years ago or more, it was. The countess was pregnant and had not had an easy time of it, and when the babe was coming, she was in labor for a long time. The midwife who was attending her knew she was in trouble, and she sent for a Gypsy woman she knew who was supposed to be a healer of sorts.

"Well, the babe finally came, but the countess nearly bled to death, and was quite frail for many weeks afterward, unable to nurse the poor child, or even to hold him. Another girl working there at the time and I came from large families and had quite a bit of experience with children, and we took turns caring for the poor little mite. He was quite strong, actually, and had a tremendous appetite. But . . . " She paused and shook her head, sighing deeply.

"Please, go on."

"Ah, the poor babe, he was the very image of his father, except . . . the right side of his face was, I don't know what you would say exactly, but there was a scar or birthmark or something—it fair broke my heart to look at it. His father . . . was . . . shallow, I guess is the nicest thing I can say, always worried about appearances; you know what I mean." At Marie's nod, she continued, "Well, when the countess was so ill and the count refused to have anything to do with the poor babe, why, those of us below stairs knew what was going to happen."

She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. "It still tears at me, even after all these years. He was such a happy little fellow, always smiled at me when I took care of him—he loved to be held and rocked—and most of the time his eyes just . . . sparkled." Blowing her nose again, she exclaimed, "And his father just gave him away, like he was . . . rubbish!"

"And to whom did the comte give him, madame?" Marie held her breath.

"The Gypsy woman who had attended the countess, she took him. I—for years I wished I had had the nerve to speak up, to offer to take him but I didn't, and I have regretted it all these years." Shrugging her shoulders, she added, "That's all I know, madame."

Thanking her, Marie went into the house, thinking carefully. "And how did he get from the woman who took him, to when I saw him at the carnival" she mused, "and how do I find that out?"

**A/N:** Thanks so much to those who have written to say that they like my "softer, gentler" Erik. It's a great relief to know that somebody else sees that side of him besides me! Keep reading-- there's plenty more to come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber are the creators of The Phantom of the Opera. My characters are based on the 2004 film. All new characters are mine, as is the plot.

**A/N:** In Chapter Seven, Marie finds out something very important about Erik's past. Please read and review; my thanks to those who already have commented on No One But Her.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Eight—The Life You Knew Before**

"Marie, why did you send for me? What is going on?" Erik paced in front of the fireplace in the library, a scowl darkening his face. "Does it have anything to do with the attack on Christine?"

Her heart thudding against her ribs, Marie sat on the loveseat near the fireplace and patted the space next to her. "Actually, there is someone that I would like you to meet." At that moment a knock sounded on the door and she bade them enter.

"Please come in. Erik, this is Madame Germont, Christine's cook. Madame, I think you have already made Erik's acquaintance, some years ago, I understand."

Walking up to him, her eyes awash in tears as she took the hand he extended to her when he stood, she stared up at him intently. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, yes," she said quietly but without hesitation, "this is the son of Eduoard Villiers, Comte de Charlesbourg, and his wife, Lorraine. I would know him anywhere."

Feeling as though he had been struck in the chest with a club, Erik fell back onto the loveseat, his mouth working but no sound emerging. Finally he swallowed and found his tongue. "You are mistaken, madame. I was—"

"Raised by gypsies; yes, I know. The woman who took you when your father—her name was—"

"Lianna," said Erik in a stunned whisper. "She died when I was— three or four, I'm not certain." He looked at Marie, who was quietly dabbing her eyes. "My memories of her are so fleeting, I barely have any at all. She did love me, of that I am certain. After she died, the band we were living with . . . sold me to the carnival, where we met." He took a deep, shuddering breath, his nerves feeling as though they would burst through his skin at any moment.

"Why?" His eyes bore into Marie, and she shrank back from him before she realized what she had done. "Why dig all this up now? Why, Marie?" He rose and went to stand in front of the fireplace, staring at the ashes as if he expected to find the answers lying there.

"Your Lordship?"

It took a moment to realize that Madame Germont was speaking to him. He turned and smiled at her as pleasantly as he could. "Yes, madame?"

"I—I just wanted to say—" She fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "I—I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I didn't do more to help you when you were a babe."

Patting her hand, Erik smiled gently. "I'm sure you did all you could, madame. Thank you."

After the plump little cook had closed the door behind her, he looked at Marie. "Why?" he demanded again in a furious whisper.

"I heard one of the maids gossiping and decided to go straight to the source—"

He cut her off with a glare. "That's not what I meant—why pursue it? Why not just ignore it as gossip?"

Taking a deep breath, she tried to justify her actions. "You're an aristocrat, Erik. I've felt it, known it, from almost the first moment we met."

"Leave it alone, Marie." His voice flat, he went toward the door. "If they're alive, I don't want to know. Obviously they cared nothing for me. If they're dead," he shrugged, "so be it. I—don't—want—to—know." He strode to the door and yanked it open, not bothering to close it behind him.

Sighing, Marie listened to his angry footsteps fade. "It's too late for that."

"A package for Madame Giry, madame." One of the maids bobbed a curtsey and gave the heavy envelope to Christine.

Seeing that the return address was a firm of solicitors, she frowned. "Why would they deliver it here?" She thanked the maid and took the package with her. She would make sure Marie received it when she went to visit that afternoon.

"This was delivered to the estate, but it's addressed to you." Christine laid the thick envelope on Marie's desk in her office at the ballet school she'd started after the disaster four years ago.

Walking to the large window that overlooked one of the studios, Christine smiled as she watched Meg teaching a class of beginners, tiny sprites in tights and tutus.

"Do you ever miss it?" Marie spoke quietly from just behind her.

They laughed softly together as one of the smallest girls slipped and landed on her bottom. Meg was at her side immediately, brushing away a tear, coaxing a smile from the would-be ballerina. Christine sighed. "Do I miss it? Yes and no. I assumed a new role when Raoul and I married and that really left me very little time to miss the opera house. Certainly not after Stephen was born."

Staring blindly at the view before her, she sighed again. "And now that Raoul is gone, and Stephen is getting into everything, and with Annaliese to care for, too . . ." She leaned against Marie as the older woman slid an arm around her. "Yes," she whispered, "sometimes at night . . . I hear Erik singing to me, in my head, just as he used to years ago. And . . . I've missed that, although I know I shouldn't."

"Bah! Who is to say what you should or shouldn't?" Marie gave her a little shake. "To be perfectly honest, chère, I think you and he will always have that connection." Gently she added, "He loves you so much, Christine. And whether or not anything ever comes of it . . ." She gave a shrug. "Perhaps it is not for us to say." Pressing a kiss to Christine's forehead, she said, "Now, away with you. I have work to do, boring work from which you can distract me all too easily, but which must be done today."

She waited for several minutes after Christine had gone then locked her office door and went to her desk. The packet lay where the younger woman had left it, and for a long time Marie just stared at it. Finally she tore away the outer wrapping, revealing a thick sheaf of papers. "Mon Dieu, but he is thorough," she murmured.

There was a copy of marriage documents for Eduoard and Lorraine, a copy of a baptismal certificate for Erik Gerard Villiers, and a paper dated a few months later, signed by a physician, stating that the baby had died from "internal injuries."

A letter from the solicitor himself stated that he'd discovered that Eduoard and Lorraine had been killed in a carriage accident in the south of France approximately five years after Erik's birth, and the couple had had no other children. A distant cousin had been the only relative to be located at the time and he had taken over the business holdings but had refused the title.

Also included were several tintype photographs, one of them a wedding portrait, and individual portraits of Eduoard and Lorraine. These Marie studied closely for several minutes. "Madame Germont was right," she said, smiling to herself, "Erik is the image of his father. But," she picked up the photograph of his mother, "he has his mother's smile." After a moment she laid the tintype aside and rose from her desk, going to stand in front of the window and stare at the now-empty dance studio below her. "And how in God's name do I tell him that?"

Someone knocked on her office door, startling her. She gave no thought to the things on her desk as she unlocked and opened the door. Christine stood there, shaking her head.

"Some days I think I would lose my head, if it weren't fastened to my shoulders," she said laughingly. "One reason I came down here, other than to deliver your package, was to invite you to bring all the students out to the estate for the day on Saturday. We'll have a picnic and they can play and perhaps run off a little excess energy." She glanced at the desk and saw the photographs, gasping as she recognized Erik—or so she thought. "Wherever did you get a photograph of Erik?" Picking it up, she looked at it carefully then frowned. "This isn't Erik—and yet it looks just like him. What's going on, Marie?"

Erik jerked the door open and scowled. "What do you want?"

In reflex Marie took a step back. "That's not a very hospitable way to greet your guests," she said reprovingly.

"Even when the guests are interrupting? I'm working on a new composition." He closed the door behind her with a little more force than necessary and she flinched. "I'm sorry, Marie," he told her with a sigh. "But this piece is at its critical point and I really don't want to be disturbed."

"I apologize, chèr, but this really can't wait until a better time." There will never be a 'better' time for this, and I have no doubt that it will do more than 'disturb' you, she thought. Looking at him questioningly, she waited.

He blew out a deep breath, feeling his concentration fly right out the window. "All right," he said. "Let's go into the kitchen."

Once they were seated at the table, Marie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I need you to promise me that you will not interrupt me, but will let me finish completely before you say anything."

Arching an eyebrow at her, he nodded once, and she unwrapped the small bundle she'd brought with her. Inside it were three tintype photographs and several sheets of paper. "I have presumed to interfere in your life yet again, mon chèr," she said quietly, "and I can only hope that someday you will be able to forgive me. That day, when Madame Germont told you who you were, I know you said you wanted to know nothing more of your parents."

Erik opened his mouth and she held up her hand. "You promised not to interrupt." Clenching his teeth he glared at her again and she smiled slightly. "I had already asked M. Gaspard, the solicitor, to investigate and see what information there was to be found about your parents."

Gesturing to the photos and sheets of paper, she continued, "This is what he was able to discover about them." She picked up the pictures one by one and studied each for a short time, then laid them back on the table.

The anger and resentment practically radiated from him in waves. "Dammit, Marie, I told you to leave it alone. Why didn't you listen to me?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters from The Phantom of the Opera. Any new characters are my creations, as is the plot.

**A/N: raoulisafop, **here you go! I know I've been updating pretty often, but I wrote the bulk of this in February and March, and only recently worked up enough nerve to post it. Marie has taken Erik pictures and some information about his parents that the solicitor has found, and he is not happy, to say the very least. Please read and review.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Nine—The Way Things Might Have Been**

"That certainly would have been the easiest thing to do, especially since that's what you wanted. But easiest isn't always best, as you know all too well." Standing, she came and knelt at his side, laying her hand on his arm. "Don't look at them, if you don't want to. All I ask is that you don't destroy the pictures or the documents."

Gracefully she got to her feet and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Briefly his arms came around her for a hug then she straightened and left him alone with his thoughts.

For several long minutes he sat without moving, staring at the photographs as though they were poisonous snakes. Pushing them out of reach, he propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "Dammit, Marie," he muttered, "why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"

Shoving away from the table, he stormed outside and paced the terrace. He found no respite from the thoughts that buzzed around in his head like angry bees and finally he stalked off to the stables. Brandy, the bay mare, nickered in greeting and stuck her head over the stall door, expecting the treat that Erik usually brought her.

He smiled and rubbed her velvet nose. "I'm sorry, bèbè," he murmured. "I forgot to bring you anything. I won't forget next time, I promise." Laughing softly when she nudged his arm, he spread his hands wide. "Go ahead and search—you won't find it." He stood still as she sniffed at both pockets on his blue shirt and then at the front pockets of his trousers.

A minute later the horse snorted in what he was certain was disgust and turned away from him. "I told you I didn't have it," he said, a note of laughter in his voice. Three stalls down, he heard Thunder snorting and stamping his feet. Giving Brandy a pat on the rump, he went to check on the stallion.

Generally Thunder had a fairly even temperament, and he too stuck his head over his stall door expecting a treat. "Sorry, boy," Erik told him. "I had something on my mind besides the two of you when I left the house." The horse snorted again and Erik scratched his head between his eyes and behind his ears. "You feel like a run, I suppose," he said, and the stallion bobbed his head up and down as if in agreement.

Grabbing a bridle from the nearby post Erik slipped it over Thunder's head and slid the bit into his mouth. He led the big gray horse from his stall. "Oh, to hell with the saddle," muttered Erik and he swung up on the horse's back. The stallion took a couple of sideways steps and Erik patted him on the neck. "Ready to run, are you?"

He gave the horse its head and they took off down the road at a fast canter. Feeling the wind rushing past him and the bunching and releasing of Thunder's muscles underneath him helped Erik relax and he was able to thing a little more objectively about what Marie had done.

After a mile or so he slowed the horse down to a fast walk. "Well, Thunder," he said grudgingly, "I can't undo what's been done, as much as I might like to. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to at least look at the pictures and documents." And then put them away, never to look at them again!

It was dusk when he returned home, and full dark by the time he'd finished taking care of Thunder. Both Rascal and Maddie met him at the kitchen door and he fed them, smiling as Maddie turned her back on the puppy in apparent disdain. He knew he should eat something, but couldn't find the energy to do more than cut a few slices of bread and some squares of cheese.

Ignoring the packet that still lay on the table, he went into the parlor and sat tiredly on the sofa. Laying his head on the back, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes. You're not going to get any rest until you look at them, a voice in his head taunted him. You might as well do it and get it over with then you can put it behind you.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not ready yet. I'll do it tomorrow." With that he rose and went into his bedroom, taking time only to remove his boots before falling across the big bed. He fell asleep almost immediately, but he was plagued with horrible dreams the entire night.

Toward morning he woke gasping for air, drenched in sweat, fists clenched in the bedclothes. "Dear God," he whispered. He'd been trapped in the burning opera house, unable to reach Christine. Stumbling from the bed, he went into the adjoining room and splashed water on his face. Then as he thought more about the dream, he realized that it had not been Christine, but someone else. That awareness sent him into the kitchen to the packet Marie had left him.

The documents lay on top and he pushed them aside. With shaking hands he picked up the portrait of his mother. Hers had been the face he'd seen in his dream. He dashed a hand across his eyes and went to the window to study the photograph. "Oh, Maman, you were beautiful!" he said softly.

He noticed a stiffness in her posture, and a touch of fear and apprehension in her eyes. She was making an effort to hide it, and the half-smile on her face was one that he knew well. He had seen it once or twice in his mirror since Christine had come back into his life.

Returning to the table he picked up the document that lay on top of the stack. It was a marriage license. His father had been thirty years old, and his mother only eighteen. "Only a few years younger than Christine," he mused.

He held the document up to the light and noticed that his mother's signature looked shaky, as if she'd been trembling when she signed her name. Laying the license aside, he picked up the baptismal certificate, surprised to see that Erik was actually the name he'd been given, and not something Lianna had chosen for him. I wonder how many days or weeks went by before they had me baptized, he thought.

Then he saw the "death" certificate, signed and dated approximately six months after the baptismal document. His anger growing, he picked up the portrait of his father and inhaled sharply. It was like looking in the mirror, except for the disfigurement of his own right cheek. Erik carried the tintype to the window to study it in the best possible light. There was a coldness in his father's eyes, and aloofness in his expression that turned Erik's stomach. "I hope you're burning in hell at this very moment, you bastard."

In the wedding portrait Lorraine was seated on an ornately carved wooden chair, with Eduoard standing behind her, one hand clamped possessively on her shoulder. Again Erik noted the rigidity of his mother's posture, the fear in her eyes that she had been unable to mask, and the domineering look on his father's face. "How frightened you must have been, Maman, to have to leave your family and go off with such a man as he appears to have been."

He went back to the table and began to sift through the rest of the documents the solicitor had prepared. The fact that his parents had been killed about five years after his birth, and had had no other children, made Erik stop and think. "Something about this story doesn't feel right," he murmured pensively. "They gave away their child, but then didn't have another one? I can't believe that the comte did not want an heir," he added sarcastically.

Maddie leaped onto the table, meowing loudly, swishing her tail just under his nose, and he laughed softly. "All right," he told her, "I'll find you something to eat." As he rummaged through the pantry, he continued to talk to her. "It seems, Maddie, that I am going to have to meet with the solicitor."

"Monsieur Gaspard?"

The big man with a full head of white hair seated behind the desk looked up from what he was writing. "Yes? How may I help you, monsieur?"

"I am Erik Montenegro. Marie Giry suggested that I come and speak with you."

Frowning, the older man looked puzzled momentarily. "Marie Giry? Montenegro? Oh! You must be the young man whose family she wanted investigated. Please sit down." He turned to the credenza behind him and pulled out a stack of papers. "Oh, yes—here it is." He picked up a pair of glasses from his desk and adjusted them carefully on his nose. "I presume you've read through all the documents that I sent to Madame Giry?"

Erik nodded and Gaspard grunted then said, "Upon the death of your parents, with no living children, your father's title and control of all business aspects of your parents' estate went to a distant cousin, Henri Broussard. He adamantly refused the title but agreed to oversee the business holdings, on the condition that 99 percent of the profits were to go into a trust fund, to which he would not ever have access."

Gaspard pulled a ledger sheet from the stack of papers and passed it to Erik. "I understand that you yourself have quite a head for business, monsieur."

Erik's eyes widened as he scanned the ledger and noted the figure at the bottom. "Merde alors!"

Gaspard's lips twitched but he said nothing.

After a moment Erik leaned forward and laid the paper back on the solicitor's desk. "I understand you have provided legal counsel to my cousin in regard to the business. I would like to meet with him, as soon as you can arrange it."

"I will send word to you as soon as I have set the day and time, monsieur."

Two weeks later Erik sat impatiently in Gaspard's office, his anger growing by the minute. "You did agree on half past ten, did you not, monsieur?"

The solicitor blew out a breath. "Yes, we did, and in all the other meetings we have had, your cousin has never been this late. A few minutes, perhaps, but . . ." He shrugged.

At that moment, the door burst open to admit a big, rawboned man with salt and pepper gray hair, his face flushed, from anger or embarrassment, Erik couldn't decide.

"My apologies, messieurs. My daughter insisted on accompanying me." He rolled his eyes, and both Erik and Gaspard smiled in understanding. "Messieurs, my daughter, Collette."

**A/N: **Lady G: no, it's not the same shirt every day. He's too fastidious for that, although he does have several that are identical. I just sort of figured that he would look good in blue (my Erik is much like Gerard Butler!)

To all the others who have posted such nice reviews, especially on my writing style, thank you! I hope I don't let you down as we continue.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **The wonderful characters of The Phantom of the Opera are the creations of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. The plot belongs to me; I doubt anyone else would claim it.

**A/N:** At the end of Chapter Nine, Erik had gone to meet with the solicitor who had investigated his parents, and arranged a meeting with his long-lost cousin. Please read and review; many thanks to those who already have.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Ten—Stranger Than You Dreamt It**

As they got to their feet, a passably attractive young blonde woman flounced into the room, clearly pouting as being made to wait in the hallway, even for a few seconds.

Erik took one look at the predatory gleam in her eyes and groaned silently. He knew this type of creature—one that will drain a person of everything possible before moving on to the next victim.

When she noticed him looking at her, her expression changed instantly from calculating to what he supposed she thought was one of innocence and charm. Thank God for my Angel! "Please, mademoiselle, sit down." Gallantly he offered her his chair. The smile that she gave him in return was shark-like, to say the very least, and he shuddered inwardly.

Henri Broussard offered his hand to Erik. "I would say welcome to the family, but it's not much of a family, to tell the truth."

"Papa!" protested Collette, her voice high-pitched and grating. "How can you say that about your own relatives?"

"Quite easily, when it's the God's honest truth," he retorted. "One thing you should know about me, cousin, is that I am a blunt, plain-spoken man who tolerates no pretense from anyone."

"Good!" replied Erik heartily. "Then we should have no trouble dealing with each other, since I am the same kind of man."

Gaspard brought in another chair and the three men gathered at one end of his desk, leaving Collette pouting at the other.

"I presume M. Gaspard has explained the decision that I made years ago when he first contacted me about the estate?" At Erik's nod, Broussard continued, "I hereby relinquish all control back to you, cousin."

Collette smothered a gasp of dismay. Papa, no! You can't give it all away to this . . . beast!

Stunned by his cousin's pronouncement, Erik sat back in his chair. After a moment he said, "M. Gaspard, if it is agreeable to my cousin, I would like for that one percent of the profits of these holdings to continue to go to him, as payment for years of faithful service."

Dumbfounded, Broussard's mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly several times. "No," he said quietly, "I have no objection whatsoever."

Across the room, Collette sat fuming and scheming. Why is Papa meekly accepting such a pittance from this . . . scarred shell of a man? If I make enough of an effort, I can make him fall in love with me and marry me. Yes, that will be my plan. Don't worry, Papa—I'll get our fair share of that money, one way or another.

The men concluded their business with a handshake and Gaspard promised to have a document prepared for their signatures within a week.

Broussard went to the door and opened it. Without a word Collette gathered her skirts and rose, casting a smile of false innocence in Erik's direction.

Once father and daughter had departed, Erik and Gaspard looked at each other and shook their heads at the same time. "Beware of that one, monsieur," muttered the solicitor.

"Believe me, I fully intend to watch my step very carefully around her," Erik said fervently. "I wish you would call me Erik, monsieur. I think we've done enough business to warrant it."

"Thank you. And my given name is Jean-Marc." They shook hands and Erik took his leave.

On his way home his thoughts kept going back to Collette, no matter how he tried to distract himself. She is really nothing more than a snake in a woman's body, he thought disgustedly, and Jean-Marc and I will have to be certain to remember that at all times. He stopped at the de Chagny estate, unaware that Collette had managed to separate herself from her father and had followed him.

Christine came out to meet him, a little uncertain how to act around him, since they had not seen each other since the day when they had kissed and she had made such a fool of herself. "Erik," she said, her tone a little too bright, "what brings you to the city?"

He took her arm and led her around the back of the house to the garden with its miniature waterfall and pool, and they sat on one of the small benches. "Actually, I've just come from a solicitor's office," he told her, and saw her eyes widen. "I'll tell you about it, soon, I promise. But I need a little time to get used to the idea . . ." He let the sentence trail away, and gave her a half-smile. "How are the children?"

"Stephen cannot stop talking about Rascal and the horses," she smiled. "One moment he's begging me for a puppy, and the next to ride one of our horses. I've asked Jacques, the stable master, to pick out the gentlest and smallest one for him to start with. Annaliese is growing like a weed, and she's trying to turn over by herself."

An awkward silence fell between them, and Christine swallowed. "Erik," she began timidly, "I feel as though I need to apologize to you for my behavior last week."

Immediately he swung around to glare at her, and she felt her heart thump against her ribs. "You most certainly do not owe me an apology," he muttered. "I—I took as much advantage of the—situation as you did, and . . ." His expression softened a little and he added, "Let's not talk about it just yet."

"All right," she murmured, feeling her face heat with embarrassment all over again when she recalled how shamelessly she had acted; she, a widow of only a few months. "I—I want to talk to you again about setting a trap for Robert—the business manager," she went on, her resolve hardening when she heard him curse under his breath. "Erik, it's the only way."

"So you say," he retorted, and rose from the bench to pace a few steps away. Standing with his back to her, he sighed. "Tell me a little about this man."

Hiding a tiny smile of triumph, she stood and walked to his side. "I'm not sure how he came to work for the family, but I think he had managed other properties or business matters in other parts of the country. Perhaps it was Raoul's father who hired him in the beginning—all I know for certain is that he had been working for the de Chagnys for some time when we married."

"And evidently was a trusted employee. I wonder what it was that made Raoul suspicious of him?" Turning to her, he continued, "Have you had a chance to look in that locked drawer of Raoul's desk?" Seeing the light of excitement in her eyes, Erik cursed himself for agreeing to this, even tacitly.

"No, I haven't," she said, tugging on his arm. "Let's go do it right now."

Raoul's office was directly across the hall from the library, and the hinges of the door screeched slightly in protest when Erik pushed the door open. Christine made her way across to the windows and pulled the draperies open, and opened the windows to let in some fresh air. "I'm sorry. I just haven't been able to make myself come in here, since—"

"It's all right, Angel. You don't have to explain anything to me." He took off his coat and laid it across one of the chairs in front of the windows.

She went to the desk and fished the key out of one pocket of her dress. Inserting it, she tried several times to turn it, but to no avail. She squeaked in surprise when Erik's large hand closed over hers. Even with both of them trying, it took some effort to turn the key, but finally it moved.

Her tongue caught between her teeth, she grasped the drawer pull and tugged. Nothing. Erik touched her on the shoulder and she moved aside. His superior strength only moved the drawer halfway out before it stopped. "Wait—it's caught on something." Christine reached in and tried to touch what had jammed the drawer. "It's a letter—or at least a folded piece of paper." Closing her eyes in concentration, slowly she managed to ease the paper free and pulled it out, letting the drawer tumble to the floor.

Sitting down in Raoul's big leather desk chair, she turned the paper over and saw it was addressed to her. She broke the seal and began to read. "It's dated . . . the day before Raoul was killed," she told Erik. Skimming through the brief message, she bit her lip. "Oh, God!"

"What does it say, Christine? Or is it too . . . personal?" Erik knelt in front of her.

She swallowed hard. " 'If something should happen to me, do not trust Robert. For some time I have suspected that he is stealing from me, from us, and I am gathering evidence to present to the authorities. If something happens to me, make Marie Giry tell you where Erik Montenegro lives—he is the man we knew as the Phantom. He will be able to help you with the business.' "

Stunned, Erik gaped at her. "He knew?"

Impishly she grinned at him. "Obviously."

He grunted at her enjoyment of his discomfiture and nodded at the note. "Is there anything else?"

Quickly she read through the remaining few lines and her eyes filled with tears. "Just . . . a reminder to be very careful."

Sitting back on his heels, Erik asked, "Where would he have hidden the evidence he might have gathered? Would it be files, or simple notes? I suppose it would depend on just what the bastard has been doing exactly." He stood and walked to the window, stared out for a long moment then said, "Is there a list of what has been invested where, and the amount invested, the rate of interest, that sort of thing?"

Anticipating his questions, Christine unlocked and opened the deep drawer on the other side of the desk, which contained many paper files. "I think what you're looking for will be in here," she said. Seeing the expression that came to his face, she smiled to herself and added, "I need to go check on the children. I don't want Stephen wheedling an extra dessert from Meg."

Already deep in concentration, Erik replied absently, "Fine. I'll be here if you need me for anything." He undid his cravat and flung it on top of his coat, and his waistcoat soon followed.

An hour later he tensed. Glancing up from the papers he had spread out on the desk, he saw Collette leaning against the doorframe in what he guessed was meant to be a provocative pose. God help me! he thought with revulsion. Pushing back from the desk, he stood, propping his hands on his hips. "What the hell do you want, Collette?" he asked brusquely.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I only wish I could claim to be the one who created The Phantom of the Opera. Hèlas, I cannot. The plot, however thin or implausible, does belong to me.

**A/N: **Warning for language. Erik has looked up to see Collette lounging in the doorway and has asked her what she is doing there. Please let me know what you think of her—I have to admit, I have tried to make her as nasty as possible! (But I hope not too clichéd.)

**NO ONE BUT HER—Chapter Eleven—Always On Your Guard**

"Is that any way to greet your long-lost cousin?" she replied, her voice grating on his nerves like gravel over paving stones. She flounced toward him, the odor of her perfume reaching him well before she did. Perching on the edge of the desk, she smiled and leaned over, allowing the low-cut bodice of her gown to gap slightly.

"I repeat—what the hell do you want, Collette?" He moved around in front of the desk, trying not to breathe too deeply.

She slipped off the desk and approached him. "Why, I want to get to know you better, of course—welcome you to the family, so to speak." Oblivious to his grimace of distaste, she reached out and touched his forearm, sliding her hand upward and slowly across his chest.

Just before she reached the open collar of his shirt, just before her hand came into contact with his bare skin, Erik grabbed her wrist in a punishing grip. "Don't," he warned her coldly as she tried to wrench free. "Whatever the true reason was that brought you here, and I am certain that I know what it was, I am not interested in anything you might have to offer me."

He flung her hand away then reached up in time to block the other as she swung at him. Twisting her wrist until she cried out, he stared down at her. "Don't make a bigger mistake than you already have," he told her menacingly. "Get out of here and don't come back." He released her and stepped back, wishing for a cloth on which to wipe his hands.

Seething, she spat, "You're a pitiful excuse for a man! You would have nothing if it weren't for my father! Look at you! No one will have you with that face!"

"No one but you, don't you mean?" he asked silkily, adding, "You've been doing some mathematics, haven't you, cousin? You've managed to add up what has been deposited in the trust fund, which is now back in my control, and what your father will still be earning from that fund, and it's a tidy little amount, isn't it? And you've decided that you're going to get every last franc, what rightfully should have been coming to your father all these years, no matter what you have to do to get it."

Stunned, Collette opened her mouth but no sound came out, making Erik laugh nastily. Suddenly he loomed over her, making her squeak in fright. "Not in this lifetime, nor the next, nor the day hell freezes over," he said in a low, furious voice. "Get out!"

Her eyes wide with fear, she sidled around him and went to the door. Following her, he watched as she scurried down the corridor and around the corner.

The solicitor's warning about her echoed in his head and Erik frowned as he resumed his seat behind Raoul's desk. But the paper that had caught his attention just before Collette had so rudely interrupted him made him forget all about her.

On it Raoul had listed at least fifteen separate occasions when he had given Robert a certain amount of money, only to discover that approximately 100 francs less than each amount had been deposited in the bank or invested as instructed. Documents from the bank verified the amounts of the deposits, and letters from the businessmen showed the amounts invested. Why did he wait—why didn't he do something about this sooner?

Over a period of three years Robert had stolen nearly 15 thousand francs, and according to what Christine had overheard, he'd had Raoul murdered and had tried to kidnap her. "I'd say this is more than enough to take to the police," he murmured.

"I'm glad you finally agree with me," said Christine from the doorway. Her nose wrinkling in distaste, she sniffed the air as she came into the room. "Has someone been here since I left?"

Shuddering, he replied, "My 'cousin' Collette was here, trying to entice me into marrying her, unless I miss my guess, so she could get her hands on my money, or something like that." He rose and came around the desk, sliding one arm about Christine's trim waist and stealing a quick kiss from her.

"Your cousin? Is that what the visit to the solicitor was about?" Hearing the excitement in her voice, he hated to explain how things truly were. In a few short sentences he told her about Henri and Collette, and his decision to allow Henri to retain the one percent of the profits.

"Oh, I see." After a moment she asked, "So—you've found the proof that Raoul said he was collecting?"

He nodded, and gestured to the paper-strewn desk. "I'll make copies of everything—we'll take the copies to the police." Releasing her, he went back to the desk and sat, pulling blank paper out to begin copying the documents.

"And we'll also talk to them about setting a trap for him, using me as bait."

It wasn't a question and his stomach clenched as the thought. His head shot up and he glared at her. "No. Absolutely not. I will not allow you to put yourself in that kind of danger."

"Erik, it's the only way—"

"Dammit, Christine!" His angry voice spilled out of the open door and stopped Collette in her tracks. Holding her skirts against her, she inched up to the doorway, her back pressed against the wall in order to remain unseen from inside.

Christine's sigh was audible. "Erik, we've been over and over this. It's the only way to guarantee that Robert will agree to meet with you. We'll set up a meeting with him in a café and the police will have men inside, pretending to eat or drink. And you'll be there to protect me, too."

Collette's interest spiked sharply at the mention of Robert and the police. Breathing shallowly, she cocked her head and concentrated on the conversation inside the room.

Sounds of fabric rustling caused her to frown then Christine's voice came softly, as if muffled against something. "I know you're worried about my safety," she said, "just as I'm worried about yours." Collette nearly gagged, and as she struggled to control herself, she nearly missed Christine's next statement.

"Tomorrow, we'll take the evidence we've found to the police and talk with them, explain what we want to do." A slight pause, with more rustling noises, then Christine said, "Come and eat. Madame Germont has made your favorite—roasted chicken."

A soft, reluctant murmur from Erik, and sounds of a drawer being opened and closed. Footsteps approached the open door, and Collette hiked up her skirts and ran down the corridor, ducking in another open door just as their voices grew louder. Heart pounding, she darted behind the door and held her breath until Erik and Christine had gone past her. Well, well, well, she thought, it appears that I will have to make another trip out here, before the beast and the bitch go to the police!

* * *

"Christine!" Erik's voice carried easily down the hallway and Collette flinched, nearly dropping the hairpin she was trying to use to pick one of the locks on Raoul's desk.

"Concentrate on what you're doing—don't pay any attention to him," she murmured, wiping her palm on her skirt and trying the lock again.

"I thought she said she was coming to get those files," muttered Erik from just outside the door, and Collette cursed under her breath.

"Why won't this damned thing open?" Realizing her time was about to run out, she stood and straightened her skirts, managing to perch on the corner of the desk just seconds before Erik came into the room.

He stopped short when he saw her. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" His voice snapped out like a whip and she pasted a smile on her face as she slid off the desk and walked toward him, her hands clasped together at her waist.

"I—I know you said yesterday that you never wanted to see me again, but I keep thinking that surely there is something that I can do to change your opinion of me." Trying to sound demure and ladylike, she kept her eyes downcast and looked up at him through her lashes.

He laughed shortly. "My opinion of you can only go down, 'cousin', although I must admit I am a bit curious to see just how much farther into the sewer it might go." Noticing the way she held one hand, he grasped it and pulled it up into plain sight. "What are you trying to hide, Collette?" He forced her fingers apart and saw the hairpin lying in her palm. His eyes narrowed dangerously and he plucked the pin out of her hand. "And just what were you planning to do with this?"

She clamped her lips together and refused to answer, giving him a furious look in reply.

He dragged her to the desk and kept a firm grip on her hands as he carefully inspected the drawers and their locks. The one where Raoul had kept the evidence he'd collected against Robert had clearly been tampered with, having several large, deep scratches in the wood that had not been there the previous day.

"You overheard Christine and me talking yesterday, didn't you? I knew I should have followed you until you were completely out of the house." Grasping her shoulders, he shook her, making a coil of her hair fall between her eyes. "And so you thought you would come back and steal the evidence and take it to Robert, so he would know what we were planning. Of course, he would be so grateful to know our plans that he would offer you a sizeable 'reward'."

Collette struggled against his hold, but to no avail. "No! I—I wouldn't do something like that to you, Erik. We're family, and family has to stick—"

"Damn you, you lying little bitch!" His voice deadly cold, it sliced through her coy protestations of innocence like a sword through flesh. "I have never harmed a woman, but I vow to you, madame, by all I hold dear—if you do not remove yourself immediately from my sight—and my life—you will be the first!"

His eyes mere slits of icy blue, he thrust her away from him, wiping his hands on his trousers, as though they had become soiled by simply touching her. "And if I have not made myself absolutely clear, madame—should you ever attempt to contact either the Vicomtesse or myself again, you will regret it. That is a solemn promise, no idle threat; of that you may be assured."

"Fils du putain!"

Erikmerely raised an eyebrow at her as she flounced from the room, slamming the door behind her.

A tiny gasp came from behind him and he spun around. Erik felt his knees go weak when he realized Christine had been trapped behind the door when Collette had stolen into the room. Her face pale, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She made her way to the loveseat and sank down on it.

"Christine, I—"

She held up a hand to silence him. "I heard everything—you don't need to explain. It's just that . . . it's been a little while since I've seen the . . . ruthless side of you."

"Oh, God!" he muttered, "I've ruined it, haven't I?" He stalked to the fireplace and stared down at the flames. His hands gripping the mantle, he closed his eyes in despair. After a moment, he gathered his courage and turned to her.

"You're wondering, aren't you? Which man am I—the crazy, obsessed man you knew five years ago, the man who killed two men with his bare hands? Or the man you've come to know in the last six months—the man who is teaching your son to ride a horse, the man who is composing music again?"

His eyes suddenly moist, he walked to the loveseat and went down on one knee in front of her. Slowly he reached out and picked up her hand. Kissing her knuckles gently, he sighed when he felt her trembling. "Christine?"

She stared at him intently for so long that he fought the urge to fidget. Then she touched his scarred cheek with her fingertips. "I know who you are, Erik. You are the man I've come to know these last months." She paused and he turned his head to kiss her palm. "All of us can be . . . ruthless under the right circumstances. I know without a doubt that I would kill anyone who tried to harm Stephen or Annaliese. Or you," she added in a whisper.

Gently she cupped the back of his head and pulled him to her. She brought her mouth to his, kissed him tenderly, until, with a growl, he took control. Rising to his feet, he drew her up with him, never breaking the kiss.

Her arms wound around his neck and he growled again as his hands slid around her and he clutched her to him convulsively. Oh, Angel, I love you!


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera is the work of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. My characterizations are based on the 2004 film.

**A/N:** Starlightlita, sorry! Erik is an only child. In Chapter Eleven Erik discovered Collette trying to steal the evidence he and Christine are planning to take to the police, and he threw her out. Please read and review; many thanks to those who have commented. I appreciate you taking the time to respond.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Twelve—The Devil's Children**

Glancing nervously back over her shoulder, Collette questioned again the wisdom of coming here by herself. Then she remembered the scene with Erik and her spine stiffened. That—that . . . beast isn't going to get the best of me!

She looked at the scrap of paper in her hand, checking the names of the streets at the intersection where she stood in the gathering darkness. Yes, this is it—Rue du le Flambeau. She had been somewhat surprised when she'd realized that Robert lived in a less than prosperous part of the city.

She asked a gendarme for directions and received instead a stinging lecture about the foolishness of being alone in that part of the city. Her ears ringing and her lip swollen from where she'd bitten it to make tears come to her eyes in a bid for sympathy, she hurried down the street.

"Merde! Finally!" she muttered when she reached the run-down building with the number 66 hanging crookedly by the front door. Her sources had informed her that Robert rented an apartment on the third floor. Once inside, she glared at the steep, narrow staircase that led upward.

Grumbling under her breath about people who couldn't live on the ground floor, Collette lifted her skirts and began to trudge up the stairs. She had to stop on the second floor landing to catch her breath. After another stop between the second and third floors, she finally reached the top of the staircase and grasped the newel post to steady herself until her breathing returned to normal.

Robert's apartment was at the end of a rather dark hallway, and she felt a tingle of apprehension on the back of her neck. But the memory of Erik's sneering face made her march down the hall to knock loudly on Robert's door.

It opened so suddenly that she gave a squeak of surprise. The man who filled the doorway in no way fulfilled her expectations. Tall and thin, except for a paunch that strained his stained waistcoat, scraggly graying hair and a day's worth of whiskers on his cheeks, Guy Robert looked more like a struggling shopkeeper than the late Vicomte de Chagny's business manager.

"Mon—Monsieur Robert?" Cursing herself for the timid stutter, Collette squared her shoulders, knowing it would draw attention to the low décolletage of her gown.

His faded blue eyes dipped momentarily in that direction, but then he said, "Go away, mademoiselle. I have no interest in company of your kind tonight."

"My—my kind? Why, you . . . you . . ." Her rather extensive vocabulary of expletives deserted her and she could only stand there and glare at him. Finally the red mist of rage cleared and she spat, "I came here to make a legitimate business proposition to you regarding the Vicomtesse de Changy, but if you're not interested—"

Robert grabbed her arm and pulled her inside before she said another word. Slamming the door behind them, he demanded, "What kind of business proposition? The last one that bastard the Vicomte put me onto nearly ruined me!"

"And now the vicomte is dead, isn't he? How would you like to take your revenge on his widow and her new . . . 'protector'?" She saw an answering gleam of avarice in Robert's eyes and smiled wickedly.

"Please, mademoiselle, sit down. I believe we have much to discuss." Robert indicated an armchair with faded upholstery and she sank gingerly onto its cushion. "Now, mademoiselle, please tell me who you are and your ideas for our . . . collaboration."

She explained who she was, her 'relationship' to Erik and her determination to fleece him for every franc she could get.

"And just where do I fit into your plans, Mademoiselle Collette?" His tone edged on boredom, firing her temper anew.

"By the fact that the Vicomtesse and my cousin the beast intend to go to the authorities with proof that you've been embezzling from the vicomte for years." She saw fear in his eyes before he looked away.

"What kind of proof?" he asked quickly. When she didn't answer immediately he grasped her wrist, adding more bruises to the ones Erik had given her yesterday.

"You're hurting me!" she whined and Robert thrust her hand away in loathing. "I—I don't know what kind of proof they have," she went on. "I was going to steal it before they could take it to the police, but—the beast caught me." Robert's snort of disgust had her snapping at him, "But I do know they want to work with the police on a plan to trap you, and so then have you arrested on the spot."

He began to think through some of the possibilities. "How much do you know of what they want to do?" She told him all that she'd overheard about meeting him at a café and he slapped his knee. "Perfect!" he crowed. "All we have to do is find a way guaranteed to separate them, then we grab the woman and hide her somewhere away from the city."

Robert reached for her hand and she watched him warily as he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. "I believe, Mademoiselle Collette, we will indeed have a successful partnership."

* * *

Erik woke because someone kept pulling at his hair. He felt a puff of air on his face and realized it was his horse, Thunder. Gingerly he raised his head only to fall back gasping as razor-sharp pain shot through his skull.

Carefully he reached behind him and felt the lump growing on the back of his head. With sudden clarity he remembered what had happened. Struggling to his feet he swayed and nearly fell, but Thunder shoved his head under Erik's armpit and held him steady until Erik had regained his balance.

"Thank you, my friend." Erik patted the horse's neck. "That bastard has Christine—we have to get help and rescue her right away." It took him three attempts to pull himself into the saddle on the stallion's back, but finally he made it and grasped the reins. Kneeing the animal into motion they hurried to Christine's estate, every jolt of Thunder's hooves making Erik's head pound sickeningly.

He slid off the stallion when they arrived, his knees nearly buckling when he hit the ground. Hanging onto the saddle he managed to steady himself then made his way into the house. Meg Giry came out of the library at a run and slid an arm around his waist. "My God, Erik! What happened?"

"That— bastard Robert—knocked me out—and took Christine," he said through clenched teeth. "We—have to—find her."

Meg steered him into the library and pushed him down on the sofa. "You stay there and don't you dare move," she ordered him. "I'm going to fetch Maman."

He leaned forward and held his head between his hands like a vice. Jolting when someone laid a cold, wet cloth on the bump on the back of his head, he moaned, partly in pain and partly in relief.

"The inspector of police is here, waiting to speak to you," Marie said quietly. "Will you be able to tell him—and us—what happened without losing your temper?" The look he shot her made her chuckle softly. "Bien. I will tell Inspecteur Filbert you are ready to speak to him." She gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. "It will be all right, mon chèr. She will be fine."

From your lips to God's ear! thought Erik. Minutes later a short, frumpily dressed man entered the room and sat across from Erik. "Please, monsieur, start at the beginning of the evening. I believe you and the Vicomtesse had worked out a plan with some of my colleagues to trap M. Robert?"

"Yes, sergents Louis and Michele. The Vicomtesse and I had given them proof, gathered by the late vicomte, that Robert had been embezzling from him. Robert was to meet us at seven tonight at the Café Dupres on the pretext that I was interested in investing in a new scheme of his, but demanded to meet with him first.

"Robert had just completed explaining the 'opportunity' to me when I heard my horse, sounding . . . agitated. I excused myself to go outside and check on him. Someone had struck him several times, leaving scratches and welts on his flank. Just as I got him calmed down, I heard the Vicomtesse cry out and someone struck me on the back of the head. I'm not sure how long I was unconscious. As soon as I came to, I rode here."

"Hmmmm." The inspector made notes on a small pad that he pulled form an inside jacket pocket. "Besides the sergents, did anyone else know of your plans? Someone who would have a reason for telling Robert of your intentions?"

Erik's mouth turned down as he spat out a vile oath. "Yes," he hissed, "Collette Broussard. She is the daughter of a distant cousin of mine. Recently I came into a rather large sum of money. Collette . . . proposed that she and I . . . 'join forces', for want of a better phrase. I refused everything she was offering, if you take my meaning, monsieur, and she vowed revenge."

"Hmmmm. And no one else comes to mind?"

"No. Until recently, Inspecteur, I have been . . . somewhat of a recluse. The business investments I have made have been through a third party—I gave them the money and instructions for the person with whom the investment was being made." At Filbert's raised eyebrow, Erik shrugged. "They were simply told that I did not care to get out much in public. My money was as good as anyone else's—why would they not accept it? I made no unreasonable demands, merely expected the dividends that were due me at the appropriate time."

For a moment Filbert made no reply then asked, "Is it possible that M. Robert and Mlle. Broussard are acquainted?"

Erik grunted. "It has been my experience, Inspecteur, that people of that nature—greedy, amoral and stupid—tend to seek out each other. After I rejected her 'offer', it would not surprise me in the least if she had contacted him, in order to help him and to hurt myself and the Vicomtesse."

"Do you have any idea where he might have taken the Vicomtesse?"

Cursing softly, Erik rose and walked a few steps, holding one side of his head. "No, unfortunately. Perhaps Madame Giry might have an idea, or someone else who works for the Vicomtesse."

"Bien. We will be in close contact with you, monsieur, in case of ransom demands, etc." He cleared his throat and added tersely, "Be certain that you do not do anything foolish, monsieur. Leave the rescue of the Vicomtesse to us."

Erik gave him a curt nod but said nothing. After the inspector had departed, he gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. " 'Leave the rescue of the Vicomtesse to us,' " he mimicked Filbert. "Not bloody likely!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** The characters of The Phantom of the Opera belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. The plot and all new characters are the product of my over-active imagination.

**A/N: Warning for violence**. Christine has been kidnapped by Robert, right from under the noses of Erik and the police. Please read and review—thanks to all of you who have been so supportive of my little story.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Thirteen—Turn Around and Face Your Fate**

Throughout all the next day they received no word from either Robert or the police. Erik paced in the library like a caged animal, until Marie ran him out, ordering him not to return until he had calmed down.

He found himself in the stables and after checking on Thunder's injuries, he began to curry the big gray horse, talking softly to him, thinking aloud. "How in God's name are we going to find her? And Filbert! I'd sooner put my trust in you to find her than him. God, I hate feeling this helpless!"

"Monsieur?" Jacques, the stable master, spoke quietly from behind him. "This lad says he knows you and that he needs to speak with you."

"Yes, Philippe works at the livery stable just on the edge of the city. What do you need to tell me?" Erik put down the brush he'd been using and came to stand in front of the gangly youth.

"Monsieur Erik, I heard about what happened, about the vicomtesse and . . . I think I might know where she is." He scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt of the stable floor, twisting his cloth cap between his hands.

Grabbing the boy's upper arms, Erik forced him to look up. "Tell us everything that you know."

"Well, M. Robert has come in and rented horses from time to time, so I recognized him when he came in a few days ago. He told M. Duchesne that he needed to rent a buggy and that he would pick it up the day before yesterday. He also told Monsieur that he needed a 'good' horse, since he would be driving back and forth between the city and Chouteau."

"Chouteau is just a small village—we should be able to find her fairly easily." Erik released the lad and gave him a slap on the shoulder. "Thank you, Philippe," he said. "When this is all over, come and see me. I might have a job for you."

Glancing at Jacques, Erik made a quick decision. "Jacques, pick two men that you trust, to go with us. You, Philippe, they and I will go to Chouteau and find the vicomtesse. We leave in thirty minutes."

He returned to Thunder's stall and saddled him quickly. Noticing that Philippe was hanging back, he jerked his chin toward the next stall. "Saddle the gelding, Philippe. You can ride him when you go with us."

In less than thirty minutes the five departed quietly, singly and in pairs, taking extra care to draw no undue attention to themselves. Within the hour they arrived in Chouteau and split into two groups to search the village for Christine, agreeing to meet again in an hour to regroup if necessary.

Erik and Philippe found her in a small house on the northern edge of town. Her hands were tied together, and she was tied to a bed with a length of rope that allowed her to take several steps in either direction. Erik hissed out a breath when she turned toward the window and he saw a bruise on her right cheek and dried blood on the corner of her mouth.

Philippe nudged him, pointing to a hugely overweight man who sat in a chair at the small table, his head back as he snored loudly. Erik whispered, "Skirt around the house and make certain this is the only guard." In a short while the youth returned and nodded—only one guard.

Squeezing him on the arm, Erik eased away from the house in the direction they had come, back to the rendezvous point to wait for the others. When they arrived, he spoke in a low voice. "We found the vicomtesse. There is only one guard." He held up a hand for quiet as Jacques and the other men insisted on rescuing Christine right away. "As much as I want to burst in and take her back immediately, I want that murdering bastard Robert even more."

Reluctantly the others nodded in agreement. "So," continued Erik, "Marcel, you and Philippe will remain here and watch for Robert's arrival. One of you come to me when he has arrived and we will rescue the vicomtesse and catch him at the same time."

Immediately Marcel and Philippe led their horses quietly back toward the house. Erik, Jacques, and Francois walked their horses a short distance away then mounted and rode back to the city in silence.

Leaving Jacques to care for Thunder, Erik entered the house to find Marie, Meg and Madame Germont in the library. They all looked up expectantly when he came in, and quickly he told them, "We found her."

Marie and the cook both crossed themselves and Meg bounded up from her chair to give him a quick hug. "But where is she? Is she all right? Why didn't you bring her home with you?"

"She's in Chouteau—Robert's holding her in a small house there." Erik explained how Philippe had come to them with the information, and that he had left Marcel and Philippe to watch and wait for Robert's arrival. "One of them will come and let us know as soon as the bastard arrives," he added. "Once that happens, Jacques and I will go back, rescue Christine and capture Robert."

Arching an eyebrow at him, Marie asked, "And what of Inspecteur Filbert?"

"After we have left to rescue Christine, send Francois to him, to tell him where she is. But only after we have left, Marie."

She nodded, and Madame Germont spoke. "Come into the kitchen, Monsieur Erik, and let me fix you something to eat."

Realizing suddenly that he was famished, he gave her a lopsided grin. "Thank you, madame. Do you have any roasted chicken?"

She patted his shoulder as she went to the door. "As if I would not have your favorite," she chided him gently, wringing a soft chuckle from him.

After he had eaten, Erik went out to the garden, to the section that contained the small waterfall and pool, which reminded him a little of the grotto beneath the opera house where he had lived for so many years. Sinking down on one of the benches, he concentrated on Christine. Be brave, Angel, he thought, but don't be foolish. We will rescue you soon and capture Robert and make certain he pays for his crimes.

He heard someone behind him and whirled around. Philippe stood there, breathing hard as if he had run the entire way from Chouteau. "Monsieur Erik," he gasped, "M. Robert has arrived—I left immediately to come to you. I—I heard him tell the vicomtesse that she would come to regret how badly she and the vicomte had treated him over the years."

Erik clapped the lad on the back. "Thank you, Philippe, for coming to me right away. Go into the kitchen now and let Madame Germont get you something to eat."

Within minutes Erik and Jacques were ready to leave, and Philippe came running out of the kitchen, half a roasted chicken clutched in one hand. "Please, monsieur, let me come with you," he begged. He jerked off the napkin he had tucked in his collar and tossed it and the chicken aside.

"You'd better pick that up," said Erik softly. "Madame Germont doesn't take it kindly when people waste her food." As the youth complied, he continued, "Saddle the roan and meet us at the turn to Chouteau. If you're not there in fifteen minutes, we'll go on without you."

Philippe joined them with time to spare and the three rode in silence. As they reached Chouteau, Erik pulled up and outlined his plan for the rescue and capture. "We will approach the house cautiously. Philippe, you find Marcel and inform him of our plans. Then—Jacques, you and Philippe will create a diversion behind the house and draw the other man outside, where you will bind and gag him. I will go through the front door, and Marcel will stand guard there."

When they arrived at the house, Philippe disappeared to find Marcel. Erik and Jacques crept up to the window and carefully Erik rose up and looked inside. The fat man they had seen before was seated at the table, attempting to clean a very rusty sword. Robert sat in the other chair, eating and watching as Christine paced to the end of the length of rope.

"Bastard!" growled Erik furiously when he saw the lascivious gleam in Robert's eyes. Jacques touched his arm in warning.

At that moment Christine looked toward the window. Hesitating for just an instant, unable to believe what she had just seen, she resumed her pacing, cursing Robert silently with every step she took. When she turned again, she quickly glanced at the window and saw Erik motioning for her to remain quiet. Heart thudding, she dipped her chin briefly to acknowledge his request.

Suddenly a loud noise came from outside the house to the rear. Without taking his eyes off Christine, Robert ordered, "Go out there and make those stupid horses be quiet! Did you forget to feed them, again?" When the man didn't get up right away, Robert reached over and cuffed him on the ear. "I said, get out there and take care of whatever is making the horses sound like that!" With a loud groan the man heaved himself up and went out the back door.

The noise from the rear of the house grew louder and Robert got up from the table in disgust. Seconds later Erik burst in the front door, sword drawn, startling a gasp from Christine and a shout from Robert. "I knew you would come to fetch her, you worthless cur!" he growled, reaching for his own sword. "Let's see how quickly you learn who your master is!"

Smiling coldly, Erik made no verbal reply. His sword seemingly held loosely in his hand, he merely sidestepped as Robert made several clumsy lunging moves at him. After a few minutes Robert was breathing heavily, but Erik had not broken a sweat. Suddenly his sword began to flash and move and Robert found himself cut deeply on the forearm, shoulder, and thigh. Blood began to seep into his clothing and sweat beaded his forehead, dripping into his eyes and mouth. He staggered, dropping his sword and tried to reach Christine.

"No man is my master," Erik said fiercely, "least of all you!" He made a final thrust, and felt his blade slide easily into the other man's body. "That was for Raoul," he said roughly, grabbing Robert's jacket and holding him upright. Jerking the blade upward through several vital organs, he continued, "And that is for Christine." He released Robert, and he fell to the floor in a pool of blood.

Immediately Erik went to the bed and untied Christine, pulling her into his arms. "I have never been more frightened in my life!" he told her, running his hands up and down her back. "Are you all right, mon ange?"

Holding him tightly, she sobbed out her fear, soaking his shirt, heard him croon to her comfortingly. Finally she pulled back and gave him a tiny smile. "Yes, I'm fine—now. How did you find me?"

Carefully he picked her up and carried her outside, away from the sight of Robert. "Philippe, the lad who works at Duchesne's, overheard Robert ordering a horse and buggy, and that he would be driving back and forth from here to Paris. He had also heard about your kidnapping, and came to me with the information. Jacques, Marcel, Philippe, Francois and I came looking for you." Gently he touched the bloodied corner of her mouth. "I should kill him all over again for striking you," he muttered harshly.

"He didn't." At Erik's raised eyebrow, Christine sighed. "Collette showed up, rather unexpectedly, I gathered, and the two of them had words. Then she turned her attention to me, and called you a pitiful beast and half a man. I lunged at her and she slapped me."

"Putain!" growled Erik and Christine smiled, as much as her cut lip would allow. "Robert shoved her, saying if anyone was going to mark me, it would be he, and she fell, striking her head against the stones of the fireplace. She didn't get up."

"Vicomtesse!" Both Erik and Christine groaned at the sound of Inspecteur Filbert's voice. He fixed a stern look on Erik, which fazed him not in the least. "I thought I told you, monsieur, to leave the rescue to us.

Erik merely shrugged.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber are the creators of The Phantom of the Opera; my characters are based on those in the 2004 film. Any new characters, and the plot, belong to me.

**A/N: Strong warning for sexual content.** My apologies if I offend anyone with the timing of certain "episodes" in this chapter. In Erik's and Christine's minds and hearts they are completely committed to each other, even without the benefit of sanction by the church, or anyone else, for that matter.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Fourteen—Where You Long To Be**

"Where is he, Marie?" Almost frantic, Christine caught Madame Giry by the shoulder. "I thought the gendarmes were finished with all of us."

In the near-chaotic aftermath of Christine's rescue, the small house where Robert had held her captive was overrun with people—carrying out Robert'sand Collette's bodies, boxing up the papers that proved the man had been embezzling for years, even a physician that had given her a cursory examination despite her insistence that she had not been harmed.

"As soon as he knew you were all right, he disappeared. The authorities have his statement, and now yours, that he killed that miserable cochon in self-defense. I would imagine that he needed to be alone for a bit and has probably gone home." She took Christine by the shoulders and turned her to the light, so she could look into the younger woman's eyes.

"Marie, what are you doing?"

The older woman smiled briefly and kissed her on both cheeks, murmuring, "Bien. It is long past time, ma petite. God bless you both." With that she released Christine and walked away.

"Has everyone gone mad?" Muttering under her breath, Christine commandeered a horse and buggy, rather abruptly assuring the captain of the gendarmes that she was perfectly capable of driving herself. "Just you wait until I get to your house, Erik," she said, snapping the reins and sending the horse flying down the road.

She had worked herself into a fine temper by the time she arrived and barely stopped the buggy before she bounded from it. Marching up to the door she pounded on the stout oak panels with her small fist.

Erik jerked the door open almost immediately, a heavy scowl on his face. "What the hell were you thinking, driving out here alone?"

She answered him in a similar tone. "And what the hell were you thinking, leaving like that? I didn't know if you were all right or . . ." Sighing, she reined in her temper. "May I come in?"

In reply he simply moved to one side and let her brush past him. For a brief moment he scanned the night; sensing no danger, he closed the door and locked it. Turning, he saw her standing with her hands propped on her hips, one foot beating a rapid tattoo on the floor. Dear God! he thought, she's never looked more beautiful!

He must have said it aloud, because her face softened, all her anger suddenly gone, and she walked toward him, her eyes filling with tears.

Knowing him well enough now to be certain that he needed her embrace, she slid her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest just above his heart. "Oh, Erik!" she whispered.

"I'm here, Angel," he answered, his voice rumbling under her ear. His arms held her close and she delighted in the warmth and strength of them, of him, the scent of soap and water and . . . Erik.

She raised her head and looked at him. Staring deeply into his eyes, she said softly, "Yes, I can dare to look and bear to think of you. I have learned to see and have found the man. You are not a loathsome gargoyle, nor a monster, nor a repulsive carcass," quoting his own words of years before back to him.

Feeling his start of surprise, she continued, "You are the man I love." Slowly she caressed his face, feeling her heart thump heavily when he took her hands and pressed kisses in both palms. When he finally looked at her, she saw a sheen of tears in his beautiful blue eyes and pulled his face down until only an inch separated them. Softly she sang, "Erik, I love you!" and kissed him on the mouth.

He hesitated and she pulled back, tears in her eyes. "Please, love," she begged, "let me in. Let me save you from your solitude."

With a groan he tightened his arms around her, his mouth hot on hers, ravaging her hungrily, as though he could never get enough. Her tongue tangled with his, met him thrust for thrust.

Suddenly he broke the kiss and Christine moaned. He stared down at her, his chest heaving, his hands restlessly moving up and down her back. Quietly he asked, "Are you certain, love?"

She nodded enthusiastically, a brilliant smile on her face. Touching his scarred cheek, she told him, "I have never been more certain of anything in my life."

He startled a small cry from her when he bent and lifted her in his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her arms went around his neck and without another word he started down the hallway to his bedroom, stopping after he'd taken only a few steps. "Oh, my angel," he whispered, "I—"

Leaning over a few inches she sealed her mouth to his for a long moment then broke away. "Please, Erik, make me yours!"

With a low growl he strode to his bedroom, depositing her gently on the edge of the wide, rumpled bed. His arms braced on either side of her, he leaned down and kissed her, tenderly at first then with growing heat.

Wedging a hand between them, Christine grabbed the ruffled collar of his shirt and tugged, tumbling him down on top of her. Quickly he rolled to the right, sliding his left arm around her so that she lay atop him. Softly she laughed, earning a gentle smile from him. Having seen so few of his smiles, she touched his lips with her fingers, laughing again as he playfully nipped them.

His play soon turned to seduction as he drew each fingertip into his mouth and suckled it. Raising up a little and sliding her other hand down his chest, she pulled his shirt free of his trousers, spread open the fine linen and gently caressed the hard wall of warm skin and muscle, concentrating on the patch of dark hair in the center.

His hands moved slowly from her back around to cup her breasts. She felt her nipples tighten and press hard against the bodice of her dress. Gasping, she let her head fall back as he gently rubbed his thumbs over the cloth covering the aching tips. "Oh, God, Erik!"

Suddenly their positions were reversed and she found herself staring up at him. "Those pleading eyes, that no longer threaten, only adore," she whispered.

"Christine, I love you so much," he breathed and bent down to take her mouth in a scorching kiss. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down, reveling in the feel of his weight on her. After a moment he tried to lever himself off her small frame, but she held on tight.

"I'm too heavy for you, love; I don't want to crush you," he said softly between kisses.

"No, it's all right—your weight feels wonderful to me." Suddenly she frowned. "That's what is different! The ring," she explained at his questioning look. "You're not wearing the chain with m—the ring."

"Only because the chain broke—I have the ring in my pocket," he murmured, resuming his assault of tiny kisses along her jaw line and down her neck to her collarbone. His hands went to the row of miniscule buttons down the center of her bodice. After several attempts he growled in frustration, "How in the hell do you manage these damned buttons?"

Laughing softly she covered his hands with hers. "Usually I'm not in quite such a hurry to get them open." In short order she had opened all the buttons to her waist. The fine lawn chemise did nothing to hide her beauty and Erik sat back for a moment.

"You leave me speechless, Angel," he whispered reverently. He helped her sit up and together they removed the bodice of her dress. When she leaned forward, one strap of her chemise slid off her shoulder and he bent down to kiss his way from the curve of her neck to the ball of her shoulder.

She gasped and shivered, and he tipped her chin up. "I've been waiting to do that since D—" Realizing what he'd been about to say, he clamped his mouth shut abruptly.

"Since Don Juan Triumphant," she finished. Sighing softly she went on, "It's a part of our history, Erik. It's always going to be there. But it is in the past. I know that you are not the same man that you were then. A part of me loved you then, I think, but a larger part of me feared you even more, feared what you might do." She shrugged. "I don't fear you anymore. I haven't for months now, not since I saw how gentle and loving you were with my children—Raoul's children." Lying back, she smiled up at him. "Right now I want nothing more than for you to take me in your arms and make love to me."

She reached up and pushed his shirt back, tracing the broad, tanned shoulders while he reached behind him and jerked the sleeves down his arms. Flinging his shirt to the floor, he sat back on his heels.

Christine felt as though she'd swallowed her tongue. Numerous times she'd seen him with his shirt open and therefore knew his chest was magnificent, but the sight of him now, with no shirt at all . . . Suddenly she felt hot all over and fanned herself with one hand.

He grinned down at her. "I think, milady, that we're both still a little overdressed, don't you?"

Eagerly she nodded and he helped her sit up again. "How does your skirt fasten and how many damnable petticoats do you have on?"

Chuckling at his aggrieved tone, she answered, "The skirt has a single button on the side, and I'm wearing two petticoats. One ties on the side and the other in the back."

He slid one hand around her waist, his fingers searching for the button on her skirt when she collapsed in hysterical laughter. "Stop! Stop! I'll do it!"

Filing away for future reference the information that she was very ticklish, he dropped a kiss on the end of her nose and said, "As my lady commands." He moved to the edge of the bed and toed off his knee-high black boots then watched as she slid to the floor, reaching for the button fastening her skirt.

His heart began to beat faster as she let the skirt drop to the floor. It took off at a gallop when she loosened the two petticoats and let them pool at her feet. Clad only in her chemise, pantalets and stockings, she turned, facing him bravely while a faint flush of color rose to her cheeks.

"Holy Mother of God!" He slowly walked the few steps to her, his eyes devouring her. Lifting her against his chest he returned to the bed, but this time he sat on the edge, still holding her as he scooted back against the pillows.

Christine touched his face and he tensed. Gently she made him look at her. "Erik, what's wrong?"

"I—I tried to tell you earlier, but you stopped me." His embarrassment obvious, he cleared his throat. "I—um—" He took a deep breath and blurted out before he lost his nerve, "I've never done this before! I—I know what to do, but . . ."

"Oh!" Sitting on his lap she could feel the evidence of his desire for her pressing against her bottom and she smiled gently at him. "It's all right, love." Slowly she moved off his lap and knelt by his side. "Just lie back and let me . . ."

After a moment he nodded and let out a slow breath. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax but jolted a little when she laid her palm on his chest over his heart. With a feather-light touch she skimmed her hand over his chest and he gasped softly.

"Shhh," she whispered, "it's all right." Her hand drifted ever so slowly toward his lean waist and his hips jerked at her touch. The bulge in his trousers grew and she smiled to herself.

His chest heaving, Erik opened his eyes. "Oh, Angel!"

"Shhhh! Your job is simply to lie there," she told him in a pseudo-stern voice.

"Yes, milady." Amazingly, his voice sounded almost normal. But his hands clutched the bedclothes as he fought the urge to move.

**A/N: **I also apologize for the somewhat abrupt ending here, but there really is no good place to stop in a scene like this, and it's too long for one chapter. Don't worry—the rest will be posted shortly.

**Tink20**, I hope this is "fluffy" enough for you!


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **Like many of my fellow writers here, I have "borrowed" the characters from The Phantom of the Opera from Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**A/N: WARNING--SEXUAL CONTENT.** In Chapter Fourteen Erik and Christine "let their darker side give in" and began to consummate their relationship. Again, my apologies if I offend anyone; that was never my intention. Please let me know what you think.

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Fifteen—The Music of The Night**

Slowly she opened his trousers and he cried out softly. Her fingertips touched his manhood, gently traveling its length. "Oh, Angel!" He grabbed her hand and held it still, pressed it against him for a moment.

Suddenly his hands went to the bottom of her chemise and he slid it upward, his fingers caressing her silky skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. Christine bit her lip and looked down at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Raising her arms above her head, she let him remove the garment, her head falling back as his thumbs moved slowly back and forth over her tightly beaded nipples. "Oh, Erik, that feels—"

He sat up and took one nipple in his mouth, tenderly tugging on it with his teeth and lips. The taste of her exploded on his tongue and he moaned. Trailing hot, wet kisses to her other breast, he continued his adoration of her body.

Christine moved until she sat astride him, his manhood cradled by her femininity. His hips bucked and they both cried out, gasping for breath.

Almost frantic now, he reached for the drawstring on her pantalets as she was trying to shove his trousers out of the way. "Lift up," they both said at the same time, then laughed softly when they realized what they'd said.

Erik levered himself up on his elbows, lifting his hips and legs so she could pull his trousers off. When he was finally naked, Christine could do nothing but stare, her mouth open. Chuckling, he tipped it closed with a finger. "Your turn, love."

Rising to her knees, she shimmied out of her pantalets, easing them down one leg and then the other. With an impish smile she tossed them to the floor, then peeled her stockings off in much the same way. As the last stocking floated to the floor, she lay down on top of him, breast to chest, thigh to thigh.

He caressed her back, rubbing his hands slowly up and down, taking special delight in the curve of her hips and bottom. Sighing, he kissed the top of her head, murmuring, "Oh, Angel, how many times did I dream of this happening. And then resigned myself to it never happening."

"It hasn't exactly happened, yet." Sliding off him to lie on one side, she rested her arm on his chest and moved one leg between his. Making a small sound of extreme satisfaction, she burrowed under his arm and laid her head on his chest. Idly she rubbed her hand back and forth over the patch of hair in the middle. "In these last few weeks, I've dreamed of it, too."

"Christine, you are my heart." His quiet declaration made her breath catch and she stretched up to kiss him. In an instant she was lying on her back and Erik painstakingly kissed his way from her collarbone to her navel, pausing along the way to pay due homage to her breasts.

His hand found its way to the juncture of her thighs, rubbing gently in circles until her hips began to thrust against his fingers. Feeling the wetness, his heart gave a hard thump and his mouth went dry.

Panting, she said, "Turnabout is fair play," and took his manhood in her hand, stroking up and down until he, too, was panting. Now!" she begged him. "Please, Erik, take me now!"

Needing no other encouragement, he parted her legs and entered her in one smooth stroke. "Christine, mon coeur, ma vie, je t'aime!" he cried. After a moment, he began to plunge into her and withdraw and she matched him stroke for stroke.

Within minutes the exhilaration had built to a peak and he gasped, "I can't—hold on—much—longer, my love."

She grasped his face and pulled him down for a long kiss then smiled up at him. "Then don't try to."

A few more thrusts then he stiffened and poured himself into her with a loud cry. "Oh, God!" Collapsing on her, still inside her, he tried to catch his breath.

Christine held him tight, tears leaking from her eyes to fall into her hair. Please, God, let him have given me his child!

Erik rose up far enough to look into her eyes. Seeing the tears he asked her, a note of panic in his voice, "Angel, are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

Tangling her fingers in his dark hair she pulled him back to her for a soft, sweet kiss. "No, love, these are happy tears. Are you all right?"

"Oh, my sweet, I've never felt so . . . I have no words to describe it." Carefully he rose from the bed and went into an adjoining room. She heard water running and he reappeared with a wet cloth. "Here, love, let's clean you up." When she had finished and handed the cloth back to him, he tipped her chin up. "Regrets, Angel?"

"Absolutely none whatsoever," she told him firmly.

"And . . . if there is a child?" He laid the cloth aside and stretched out beside her, tucking her against his side and pulling the bedcovers up over them.

Her heart skipped a beat and she hoped her face didn't give away her fondest wish. "Would that . . . upset you?"

For a long moment he was silent. Then pensively he answered, "I honestly don't know. The thought that I might pass down the scars, especially to a daughter—I would never forgive myself."

Gently she touched his scarred cheek. "Marie showed me the pictures of your parents that the solicitor sent you." Feeling him tense angrily, she added, "I know—I know! To give you away like that . . . it was horrible and they didn't deserve you! But neither of them had anything like your scars. It had to have been something that happened while your mother was carrying you."

"I suppose Marie told you everything."

Christine hid a smile at the disgust in his voice. "She told me about your parents, and the title, but actually it was Raoul who told me about how she helped you escape from the carnival."

Erik smiled softly. "She literally saved my life. She has been like an older sister, or an aunt, ever since. When I first bought this house and moved here, I think she kept me sane." Sighing, he pulled Christine closer and idly toyed with the ends of her hair. "Those were . . . dark, difficult days. Finally she decided that she'd had enough of my drunkenness and self-pity and grabbed my ear. I thought she was going to twist it off! Then she told me either to grow up and act like a man, or give up and shoot myself."

Christine couldn't stop the bubble of laughter that escaped as she pictured the scene, as Marie was barely half Erik's size. "Yes, that was her favorite way of getting our attention in the ballet school, too."

"Anyway, when she came the next time, I'd begun to design the bathing room." At Christine's confused look, he smiled. "Come, love, let me show you." He picked his trousers up from the floor and slid them on, then pulled the top sheet loose from the bed for her to wrap around herself.

The adjacent room was half the size of his bedroom, and was unlike anything she'd seen before. Along one wall there was a counter and a sink, complete with two faucets. She watched in amazement as he turned one handle and water gushed out.

Along the opposite wall stood a huge bathtub, easily three times the size of any other she'd seen. It also had a spigot and two handles at one end. She turned the one on the left and hot water spilled out. "How did you do this? And please use simple terms."

Laughing, he came up behind her and enfolded her in his arms. There's a spring not far from the stable, and I built a pump and laid a system of pipes from there to the house. In a small room off the kitchen I put a tank where I heat water for bathing and washing dishes, clothes, whatever might require hot water."

She looked up at him over her shoulder. "Marie was right. She told Raoul you were a genius." Looking at the huge tub again and then at him, she smiled impishly. "I feel the need of a bath, milord."

"As my lady wishes. I'll go build up the fire beneath the water tank." Stepping back from her, he made a brief bow and left. While she waited for him to return, she trailed her hand over the smooth granite countertop and marveled at the detail of the mosaic design of the tiles laid on the wall around the tub, from the floor to just below the windows set high in the wall. Several different scenes from Verdi's Aïda were depicted.

Erik returned and went to the tub. He turned both faucets and tested the temperature of the water with his hands. "Perfect," he murmured. From a tall cabinet standing near the tub he pulled out several large, fluffy sky blue towels and a cake of spicily scented soap. He gauged the depth of the water to be sufficient and turned off the taps. "Your bath awaits, milady."

Before she could reply he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the tub. Still wrapped in the bedsheet, she squealed when he swung her over the water and acted as though he were going to drop her in, sheet and all. "Erik, don't!"

Smiling broadly, he cradled her against his chest. "No? But I thought my lady wanted a bath." He let her slide down his body; when her feet touched the floor he tipped her chin up and stared deeply into her dark eyes. "Oh, doux ange, I love you more than I ever dreamed possible." Bending his head he took a deep kiss from her, as well as the sheet. Never breaking the kiss he picked her up and placed her gently in the water on her bottom. The top of the water lapped just at her breasts and he felt himself harden.

Quickly he shed his trousers and joined her. She came immediately into his arms, kissing his chin, his neck, whatever she could reach of him. Fumbling for the soap, he began to wash her back. She arched against him and made a purring noise.

Chuckling softly, he moved up to wash her shoulders and her neck. "You sound just like Maddie, when I rub her ears," he murmured, sucking in a deep breath when Christine bent toward him and nipped his earlobe with her teeth. "Sit up, love," he ordered in a raspy voice and when she complied he brought the soap down over her breasts, moving in ever-widening circles.

Christine let her head fall back in ecstasy, closing her eyes as he painstakingly lathered and rinsed her, taking an agonizingly long time. She reached between them and grasped his manhood, stroking it as she had earlier.

Erik let the soap fall into the water, his own head falling back as he felt the peak building. Grasping her under her arms, he lifted her halfway out of the water. "Are you ready, Angel?" Eagerly she nodded and he continued, "We'll try a different way this time."

He positioned her above him then slowly eased her down on his throbbing erection. They both cried out as their bodies became one, and when she was fully seated, she put her hands on his shoulders to brace herself. He thrust upward and she inhaled sharply. "Oh, my God! Erik, how-can-it-feel-better-than-before?"

She let him set the pace, as before, but this time he brought her almost to the peak twice and stopped. When she looked down at him with glazed eyes, he began to move again, slowly at first then with ever-increasing speed. "OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!" she cried, screaming out his name when her climax hit her full force.

Seconds later he joined her, crying "Mon rêve!" as he spilled himself in her. They lay limply in the tepid, soapy water. After a few minutes, he stirred. "Christine, mon âme?"

"What?" she answered in a dreamy, sleepy voice.

"We really do need to get out of the water."

"Mmmmm," was her only response and she made no attempt to move from her position on his chest.

He smiled at her tenderly. "Brave little angel—this has been one hell of a day, hasn't it?" Carefully he got to his knees, holding her against his chest and stood slowly.

She made no sound when he laid her on the bed and gently dried her as best he could. Using the towel on himself quickly, he lay down beside her and curled an arm protectively around her waist. As an afterthought he pulled the bedcovers up over them and promptly fell asleep.

**A/N: **By no stretch of the imagination am I an engineer, so if something is wrong about the spring and pump and pipes, etc., please forgive me. (No one that I would allow to read this has any more knowledge of the subject than me!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber are the creators of The Phantom of the Opera. I am most grateful that they did. I hope I have not tarnished those characters in any way.

**A/N:** This chapter is a little longer than the others, but it is the final chapter of this story. There are others in the works; time will tell whether they will appear here or elsewhere. **Thanks so much** to all who have read my work and have been kind enough to take a few minutes to let me know how much they have enjoyed it. Working on this story was like therapy for me, getting me through some difficult days earlier this year. Your wonderful comments have been a balm to my soul. Please let me know what you think of "the rest of the story."

**NO ONE BUT HER**

**Chapter Sixteen—Share With Me One Love, One Lifetime**

The next morning Erik woke to the smell of croissants baking and ham frying. Leisurely he stretched and turned over on his back. A huge smile creased his face as he remembered last night. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would ever make love to Christine. When he had let her and Raoul go free four years ago, he had believed that she was lost to him forever. Now . . . Heaven just might be within his grasp.

Feeling happier than he could remember, he bounded from the bed and pulled on the trousers he had tossed to the floor last night. He followed the delicious smells to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to drink in the sight of Christine, dressed only in one of his chambray shirts, bending over to check the croissants baking in the oven. "Funny—that shirt never fit me that well."

Hearing the sleep-raspy voice behind her, she stilled for a moment, then closed the oven door and straightened. "I'm not so sure of that, milord," she said softly, turning and walking across the room to slide her arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his gorgeous bare chest just above his heart.

He simply held her, his hands rubbing slowly up and down her back, caressing her through the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. She fairly purred in satisfaction and snuggled deeper into his embrace. Behind them the ham hissed and spat in the skillet as it cooked. Just an ordinary sound, he mused, but today it seems extraordinary!

Christine pulled back and smiled up at him. "If you would set the table, milord, I'll serve breakfast shortly." Turning back to the stove, she gasped when he gave her a playful swat on her backside. She glanced over her shoulder at him in surprise.

"That's twice in ten minutes you've called me that," he said. "I don't want the damned title! I want to be nothing more than I am, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Except . . . perhaps someday . . . to be your husband," he told her softly.

Her eyes filled with tears then widened in dismay. "Oh, no! The croissants!" Quickly she grabbed a kitchen towel, jerked the oven door open and snatched out the baking sheet. "Just in time."

Erik pulled plates, mugs and cutlery from the hutch in the corner and set the table then helped Christine carry the food to it. He pulled out a chair for her and as she sat he leaned down and nuzzled her neck. "Good morning, love," he murmured.

"No," she replied, and he gave her a questioning look. "It's a wonderful morning. That bastard Robert is . . . where he belongs, and you and I are . . ." At that moment her stomach growled loudly and his answered, making them laugh.

They ate in companionable silence, broken only by the appearance of Maddie, to whom Erik sneaked pieces of ham under the table. When they'd finished, Christine got up and brought the coffeepot to refill their mugs.

"I know you don't want to talk about this, but I'd like to make a suggestion," she said. "Ask Madame Germont about your parents. Ever since Marie brought you those pictures, I've sensed the ambivalence in you, Erik. Part of you wants to know and part of you justifiably hates them for what they did to you. But talk to her and settle it in your own mind, once and for all."

He stared into his coffee for a long moment then sighed and looked at her. "I'll think about it—but that's all I can promise, love."

* * *

"You wished to speak to me, my lord?" Madame Germont stood in the doorway of the library. 

"Yes, madame, but please, call me Erik. I am not, nor will I ever be, the comte de Charlesbourg." He gestured to a chair in front of the fireplace and the plump little cook perched on the edge. He sat in a chair opposite her.

"In what way may I help you, mon—Erik?"

He inhaled and exhaled sharply. "I would like to know a little . . . about . . . my parents." Madame looked slightly uncomfortable when he continued, "And hold nothing back, madame. I want the honest truth—or at the very least, your honest opinion."

"Well." She twisted her fingers together. "I do know that theirs was an arranged marriage, and as was the custom, your mother bowed to your father's wishes in all things. I don't believe that she ever really loved him, my boy; she was merely doing her duty. He . . . was not a kind man, certainly not an easy one to work for, nor, I suspect, an easy one to live with. Oh, he was a handsome devil, to be sure. You are his exact image, except . . ." She cleared her throat.

"Go on, madame."

"Your mother was barely 18 when they wed, and she was a dear, sweet, innocent girl, gentle and caring. She knew the names of all of us who worked there, and asked us often about our families. She played the piano and sang beautifully. Very much like the Vicomtesse, she was.

"Your mother was overjoyed when she realized she was carrying you, lad. But . . . something happened when she was about six months along—she became deathly ill and we all feared we would lose the both of you. Took to her bed and stayed there until you were born.

"There were . . . complications . . . and we all thought she was going to die, after you were born. The comte took one look at you, at . . . your face, and ordered us to take you away. He refused to hold you or even look at you—and he refused to let your mother see you, either. She begged and begged, until finally he had a doctor come and give her laudanum and . . . well, I'm almost positive he kept her drugged for weeks. Another girl and I took turns caring for you."

Erik surged to his feet and stalked to the far end of the room. "Bastard!" he whispered viciously.

"Exactly so. Someone—I don't know who—convinced him that the . . . scars on your face might fade in time and he waited—most impatiently, I might add—for several months. When they didn't improve, he sent for Lianna, the Gypsy woman, and gave you to her."

Pausing, she dabbed her eyes. "I happened upon your mother in the garden one day not long after that. Sobbing her heart out, she was, and when I asked her what was wrong, the look on her face fair broke my heart. " 'Why did I let him take my baby?' she said, tears running down her sweet face. 'Oh, Erik, oh, my baby, please forgive me!' she sobbed over and over.

"Well, I knew I couldn't let the comte find her like that, so I helped her back inside to her room. I found a position elsewhere not long after that and left. But I pray for your dear mother's soul, that she finally found peace and forgiveness, to this very day."

He swallowed hard and managed to smile at her. "Thank you, madame, for everything." He took her hand and helped her to her feet, gallantly kissing her knuckles before releasing her hand. Just as she reached the door, his voice stopped her. "Madame? Do you remember the date on which I was born?"

"Yes; it was November 13th, 1839." She started to open the door then turned back to him. "Erik, could you possibly think of me as . . . No. Never mind."

Crossing to stand in front of her, he took her hands and squeezed them gently. "I would be honored to consider you as my aunt, madame. But I don't believe that I know your Christian name?"

"It's Violet," she told him softly, and he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, again, Tante Violet, for everything."

Christine found him in the library some time later, sitting in the near dark, his head in his hands. "Erik, are you all right?" She touched his shoulder and he raised his head, a look of desolation and heartbreak in his eyes that she had seen only once before—the night years ago when she and Raoul—and Erik—had escaped from the burning opera house.

"My—my mother loved me," he whispered incredulously. "She was heartbroken when that bastard who fathered me gave me to Lianna."

Christine said nothing, simply gathered him in her arms and let him sob out his grief for the mother he never knew, and the loss of her love. I will take care of him for you, Lorraine, she promised silently, her own eyes filling with tears. I will love him enough for the both of us.

* * *

"Erik, my love?" 

"Mmmmmm?" Still half-asleep, he turned over and slid his arm around her waist, resting his chin on top of her head. It had been six weeks since the rescue, and they had spent many nights together, talking, playing with the children, and enjoying their new-found love.

"I'm—I'm going to have your child." She said it so softly that he almost didn't hear her.

Immediately he sat up, looking down at her with a small frown. "Say that again."

She exhaled slowly and he could feel her trembling. "I'm carrying your child," she repeated quietly. "I—I know we talked about it only that one time, and I understand your concern about the scars . . ." Looking up at him she smiled tremulously.

Slowly one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that soon covered his entire face. His eyes shining with love and excitement, he gathered her in his arms and they rocked back and forth for a moment, both of them fighting tears.

Erik moved away and gently pressed the palm of his hand to her abdomen. "Oh, my angel," he whispered. "Are you feeling well? When—when did we make this child?"

"The night of the rescue," she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"A special night, indeed," he mused. Silent for a moment, he looked down at his hand, still pressed to her stomach, and a single tear ran down his cheek. "Will you marry me, Christine?"

Her tears spilled over and streamed down her face as she nodded and whispered, "Oh, yes!" She took his face in her hands and stared deeply into his eyes. "I love you so much!"

Closing the tiny distance between them, he kissed her, gently at first then with growing ardor. With a moan he broke away. "How soon, love?"

"How soon what?" she laughed softly. "The child is due in about eight months. How soon we can be married depends on you, in part. Do you want a private ceremony, with just Marie and Meg and the children, perhaps your cousin Henri and M. Gaspard? Or something more elaborate?"

"Small and simple," he said emphatically.

Three weeks later they stood in front of a priest in a chapel of the Church of Sainte Anne. "Erik Gerard, will you have this woman as your wife, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

"I will." Drinking in the sight of her, dressed in a simple gown of ecru linen, he thought, She has never looked more like an angel!

"Christine Amalie, will you have this man as your husband, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

"I will." Looking up at him, dressed in a black coat and trousers, with a sky blue cravat and waistcoat over a blazingly white shirt, she thought, What an incredibly handsome man he is!

They exchanged rings, Christine moving her two-carat diamond solitaire to her other hand to receive the plain gold band that matched his. The priest blessed them and concluded, "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. You may kiss your bride, monsieur."

Mindful of where they were, Erik kept the kiss gentle, but when they broke apart, the gleam in his eyes promised her a busy night.

Watching them, seeing the love they shared glowing all around them, Marie pressed a hand to her heart and blinked away tears. Finally, all is as it should be.

Seven months later

"Errriiiikk!" Christine cried out in the throes of a powerful contraction. The midwife and Marie had put him out of the room earlier, but now she wanted—no, needed him with her.

Outside in the hall he heard her cry out for him. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the door to her room. "That does it!" He flung the door open and strode into the room, ignoring the glares of the older women. "She wants me here—I'm going to stay here," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Then hold her hand and help her breathe through the contractions—she doesn't need to push yet."

He did as he was told, eventually climbing into bed with her, pulling her back against his chest to support her as she labored to bring their child into the world. Finally, Christine gave a loud cry, and almost immediately the baby began to cry lustily.

"You have a daughter, mon chères," said Marie, her eyes misty with tears as she brought the baby to them after she had been washed.

Mother and father carefully examined her from head to toe. Dark curls covered her small head and she stared up at them from eyes dark like Christine's. Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The baby's tiny face was perfect, as smooth and soft as silk. He touched her right cheek with a fingertip and she turned her head in that direction, her bow-shaped mouth making sucking motions.

He looked at Christine, blinking back tears. "We never decided on a name, love." Turning her head she whispered to him and he smiled and nodded. "Mesdames," he said to Marie and the midwife, "we would like you to meet Marie-Lorraine Montenegro."

**A/N:** As good a stopping place as any, I thought. Please let me know what you think. Thanks to all who have read **No One But Her**, even if they didn't post a review. Seeing all those "hits" sure does make you feel good!


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